


The Time For Vigilance Is Over

by GingerBreton



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magic, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Medieval road trip, Minor Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Self-Destruction, Slow Burn, lots of descriptions of scenery - i can't help myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: The Blight is coming.  Darkspawn are swarming the south.  Ferelden stands on the brink of disaster; the king's army is destroyed and civil war is brewing.  The country's only hope lies with a bastard prince, the surviving heir to Highever, and the scion of a disgraced family.  Will Alistair, Aedan and Ysabelle be able to stop their world dissolving into chaos?





	1. An Oncoming Storm

On the horizon the crumbling towers of Ostagar loomed into view. Duncan and his party had been scouting the south for weeks searching for their quarry. As the party of six trekked further along the Imperial Highway, the impenetrable pine forest hemming in the highway began to thin; their elevated position giving them glimpses of the looming Frostback Mountains as they sprawled south into the uncharted lands beyond the Wilds. Despite it being summer they all began to feel to chill of the winds blowing down from the snow-capped giants. 

In a spot where the ground had risen up to meet the highway, the Wardens broke away from the road and headed south-east through the forest. The light was dim amongst the tall trees and the air was heady with the scent of pine. The two elves in the party led the way; their senses being far better adapted to the difficult conditions than those of the humans. Suddenly the trees gave way to open air and a sharp drop the valley below; the clifftop vantage point created an impressive vista across the fetid marshes of the Korcari Wilds. 

“Careful, shem!” called out Adanna, startling one of the younger wardens who scuttled back from his investigation of the cliff.

“If you fall over the edge, we will just leave you there.” Lindel chuckled, sharing a smirk with Adanna. 

Duncan had been lost in thought, staring off toward the southern mountains where storm clouds were beginning to gather and the first rumbles of thunder could be heard drifting on the breeze. He had been a warden for some twenty years and the effects were beginning to wear on him. In that time, he had faced darkspawn; he knew the whisper of their presence at his ear, the tingling feeling of the hairs standing up on the back of his arms as they neared, and he knew the shadow of their movement against the darkness of his closed eyes. 

What he felt here was different. There was no subtlety in the indication of their presence; even with his eyes open he could practically see the shadows of their existence; an experience ordinarily reserved as a sixth sense. And the whispers were no longer murmurings in his ear. As they had left the road and headed closer to the Wilds the whisper had risen to a rumble, and now it felt more akin to a roar coming from beneath his feet, echoing amongst the trees and booming in his head. 

Duncan forced himself to suppress the screaming of the taint in his blood. As he took a deep breath and focussed on the moment he realised that something was wrong. Something more immediate than the aura of pain exuding from the Wilds. The birdsong had stopped. Eerie silence had fallen across the clifftop punctuated by the grumbling of the nearing storm. Duncan held up a hand to silence the teasing from his senior wardens. 

In that moment darkspawn poured forth from the trees, as though they had sprung from the ground itself. The shocked wardens drew their weapons as the darkspawn fell upon them. 

***

It had been nearly a fortnight since the attack and while the passage of time had lessened the sharp sting of the events atop the cliff deep in the Wilds, it had done nothing to ease the ache of loss. They had marched north to Denerim for twelve long days, and the moon was shing high above Dragon’s Peak when they eventually reached the city gates. There was barely a soul to be seen as the navigated the city’s streets and back alleys, eventually beginning the winding ascent toward the Royal Palace. 

The hour was still impertinently early as Duncan was led by a servant reluctantly to the King’s study. The palace staff had been hesitant to disturb his majesty, eyeing the bloodied and exhausted wardens with distaste. He had had to draw himself up to his full height and use his most commanding voice, gradually increasing in volume until they buckled and scurried off to ready the King. 

A fire was still burning in the grate, presumably from the previous evening, leaving a smoky scent mingling with the must of old papers strewn across a massive oak desk. Duncan pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains, letting the first strands of dawn light spill into the room. The palace occupied a commanding position, rising up the side of Dragon’s Peak, and the study’s windows took advantage of the majestic sight of Denerim and the surrounding lands sprawling out below it. The early morning sun dancing on the waters of the Drakon river as it wound its way through the city, twisting like a ribbon of gold through the countryside.

Despite the desk’s position away from the window in an obvious attempt to reduce distraction, Duncan noted the threadbare rug beneath him where feet must regularly shuffle, and the spot where shoulders would lean upon the stone window frame, giving away the habits of the room’s occupant. He had waited patiently for King Cailan’s arrival, admiring the sunrise across the slowly waking city and utilising the time to think how best to persuade the King of the severity of the darkspawn threat. 

The sun had climbed above the horizon by the time the King arrived, eyes shadowed and golden hair still somewhat dishevelled, as though he had quite some persuasion to be moved from his bed. On his heels was his Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren, somehow immaculately groomed and in full armour even at this early hour. While the king greeted Duncan warmly, the Teyrn hung back, eyeing him with disapproval. The room filled quickly with advisors, all jostling for a prime spot from which they could view the proceedings in full detail, without being close enough to be expected to contribute. 

“What brings you here, Warden?” Loghain began, not bothering to hide the glare in his tired grey eyes. “This is most irregular.”

“Now now, Loghain. I’m sure Duncan has a very good reason for waking us at this hour,” Cailan smiled. “Please, tell us the nature of your visit.”

“We have arrived this day from the southern Wilds with grave news, your Majesty. A Blight is upon us.”

He hadn’t noticed much in the way of chatter before that moment but now the room had fallen into complete silence, as eyes widened and jaw hung open. 

“Ridiculous!” Loghain was the first to speak.

Duncan met Loghain’s stare with cool determination. “No, Lordship. I have seen what lies beyond the horizon. Maker help us all.” 

***

Loghain paced like a caged animal as Duncan relayed details of their darkspawn encounter in the Korcari Wilds. Cailan sat in wide-eyed awe, more akin to a boy hearing a bedtime story than a monarch being informed of an oncoming invasion. As much as this concerned Duncan, he could hardly blame Cailan. The lad had grown up in peacetime, most likely fed daily on stories of his father’s bravery and prowess in battle. He knew nothing of the real horrors of war. 

The Teyrn’s vocal dismissal of his claims of Blight snapped Duncan back into the moment. Loghain had been making it explicitly clear that he had no regard for Duncan’s counsel. He was now ranting that the “rumours of a Blight were no more than the blusterings of an order so diminished in number that their true motivation was solely to bolster their ranks.” Duncan fought the urge to as the Teyrn if they should just leave him to it. To see if he can outthink a pestilence that would pollute his beloved Ferelden. To see if he could predict the actions of the unthinking monsters it would unleash on his beloved people. He instead settled for a subtle eyeroll. 

Despite Duncan’s best efforts to keep proceedings civil, following Loghain’s outburst discussions had gone downhill. Despite the Teyrn’s advice to the contrary, Cailan had announced to his advisors that he wanted the army ready to march south as soon as was humanly possible. Duncan had openly admitted that their numbers were indeed few and that he wished to send word the Order in Orlais for reinforcements. A plan that, much to the Teyrn’s horror, the King had fully endorsed. Loghain had stood silent from this moment on, the only outward sign of distress that a casual observer may have picked up on being the momentary glazed look in his eyes. From then there had been a subtle shift in the energy of the room. Despite the bright morning sunlight streaming through the study windows, it was as though a cloud had fallen over the crowded study, weighing heavily on the mood of those within. 

Duncan was vastly relieved to make his excuses, politely stating “I must beg your majesty’s pardon but we are in desperate need of new wardens and it is vital I begin recruiting post-haste”. With a swift bow he had swept from the room, leaving them to discuss the merits of Ostagar as base of operations. He had not having felt so relieved to escape to fresh air since his last trip into the Deep Roads. 

***

The bright sunlight stinging his eyes as he scanned the courtyard for the small contingent of Wardens with whom he was travelling. They were a smaller party than had arrived in the Korcari Wilds a few weeks before. Duncan hung his head, taking a moment to remember Daveth, the young Warden-Ensign hailing from a small village in the Hinterlands, he had tragically lost his life when the darkspawn had attacked them high on that ledge. He would have to be warier in the future. His focus had been entirely on the other Ensign, who was attempting to fight off two hurlocks. Both young men had gone through their joining together and had grown quite close in the following six months that they’d travelled together. Daveth had been rushing to his compatriot’s aid when he had been struck with an arrow to the throat. The poor lad was dead before he had hit the ground. Duncan couldn’t help but feel if his focus hadn’t been on the wellbeing of the other young Warden, or even if the damned taint hadn’t been screaming incessantly in his veins, that Daveth might still be alive today. It was a waste of a life, one that haunted the whole unfortunate party. 

Sat in the shade some twenty feet away were his four remaining companions, talking quietly amongst themselves. Among their number was his second in command, Warden-Constable Domnall. He was a great bear of a man with thick black hair and icy blue eyes. Rumours had always swirled about Domnall amongst the recruits; getting more and more farfetched with every passing year. Duncan’s favourite was that the Avvar had once wrestled an ogre with his bare hands. On that cursed clifftop Domnall had put his impressive stature to use, taking down five genlocks with a single sweep of his great sword in an attempt to get to the young Wardens, but alas it was too late for Daveth. 

His two Senior Wardens, Adanna and Lindel, were both city elves. She was from Amaranthine and he hailed from Denerim’s alienage. They had bonded over the novelty of how they had been treated as equal within the Wardens, and though it wasn’t an easy life, it was far better than the ones they had come from. They were known amongst the Ferelden Order for their good humour and high spirits. Despite the morning’s glorious sunshine, it was as a shadow had fallen across the pair, blotting out their usual laugher and replacing it with anxiety about what the coming months may hold. 

The final member of their party was his one remaining Warden-Ensign. As Duncan approached his party, the tallest and most junior of their number scrambled to his feet. He was the youngest of them at just twenty years of age. The guilt at Daveth’s death still ate at him, and since leaving the Wilds he had been so eager to try and earn approval. 

Duncan had whisked the sandy-haired youth out from the revered mother’s clutches just six months previously. The young man’s skill as a warrior was impressive, as was his continued mastery of the templar arts. Despite this, it was as though the lad thought of himself as an imposter, ever fearful of being discovered and cast from the order. He was still desperate to prove himself, but following the events in the south his usual cheery demeanour had been quiet and reflective. 

“Nobody blames you, Alistair,” Duncan had reassured him on the long march to Denerim. “But you do understand that any one of us, all of us even, could be lost in this war?”

“Of course, Duncan,” Alistair had looked round at him with baleful eyes. “I just feel like if he hadn’t come to help me…”. His voice trailed off as he hung his head, avoiding Duncan’s eye. 

Duncan pushed thoughts of the boy from his head as he marched towards his companions. They had too much to do to dwell on the past.


	2. No More Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan finds a new potential recruit when the wardens run into some trouble in Denerim.

It was nearing noon by the time Duncan and his companions wound their way back down to Denerim’s marketplace. The summer heat rose off the cobbles, accentuating the fowler odours arising from the city’s poor districts. The air was full of the voices of stall-holders plying their wares to the throng of potential customers, and the clashing music of competing buskers. The ramshackle houses and shops surrounding the square afforded no shade to the weary travellers as they made to restock ready for the next leg of their journey. 

Lack of sleep and the bustle of the market district was stopping Duncan from thinking straight. He called to party to a halt by the large central arcade, the only properly shaded area of the market, and took a long swig from his canteen, regarded his assembled Wardens.

“Domnall, I need you to send word to the rest of the order here in Ferelden. They need to make their way to Ostagar. Also get a Raven to Orlais to inform their Warden-Commander that the king will allow reinforcements into the country. I know the plan was for you to accompany me to Highever, but I think it is best that you head straight to Ostagar and begin preparations for receiving our comrades.”

Domnall nodded, turned on his heel and wasted no time in heading out of the marketplace. 

“Adanna, you and Lindel will head to Redcliffe and collect the new recruit. The king is sending word to the Arl about the situation in the south, but you can update him more fully while you are there. Take Alistair with you,” he stated, frowning at Alistair’s look of reluctance. “We will meet again at Ostagar once my business is concluded in the north.”

The Wardens dispersed. Lindel and Adanna wandered off to inspect the goods of an Antivan trader, leaving Duncan to collect his thoughts.

***

Perched atop a wall just outside the main square sat a woman, deep copper hair cascading down her back as she hunched her shoulders in an attempt to keep the beating sun off any exposed skin. Ysabelle fussed at the bridge of her nose, which had reddened and started to peel; a result of her patient observation of the market over the past few days. 

‘Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar’ she mouthed in sync with the merchant around the corner, boredom written across her face. As her feet drummed a rhythm on the wall, a long yawn escaped her lips. It had been another disappointing morning. The market was crowded with people, but none of any higher status than a commoner or servant. There wasn’t a single damned pocket worth picking or purse worth cutting amongst them. The combination of stress and hunger was beginning to make her head throb, or it could be sunstroke; it was hard to tell by this point. 

As the milling throng momentarily parted she caught a glimpse of a tall older gentleman. His unusual armour and the deep tan of his skin making him stand out from the crowd. If pressed, she’d say he was probably Rivaini as he had a look of some of the sailors she’d met around Denerim’s docklands, though this man had a dignified air of authority. As he was swallowed by the crowd again, she slid off her perch to try and get a better look. 

Ha! now there was a fine sight: a coin pouch filled to bursting sat right on his hip. A less practiced thief might have assumed the man to be an easy mark, but Ysabelle was not so naïve. She had seen how well armed the man was, had noted that his armour did not appear that heavy and was acutely aware of the duel weapons at his back. Most probably more rogue than warrior, which would make him observant and quick on his feet, despite his age. Under ordinary circumstances she would have left well alone and waited for an easier target; one of those fat lazy nobles would have been perfect, but they didn’t bother with the market when the weather was like this, preferring to remain in their walled gardens, sipping cool drinks and sending their servants to suffer the heat. If thoughts of hungry bellies and baleful eyes hadn’t been driving her, this wasn’t a risk she’d have happily taken. The stakes were too high.

Moving closer, her eyes focused on his two elven companions. They were talking with Cesar at his stall. That should be just far enough away for her to not draw too much attention, so long as she kept a close eye on them. 

“This is just a one off,” she muttered to herself, thinking how long it had been since she’d eaten. “It’s just to tide us over until the caravan gets back.” She scraped her hair back out of the way, fastening it with a leather tie; it always paid to change her appearance at least a little when in town, that way she was less noticeable to the patrolling guard population. 

She set off into the crowd, leaving barely a ripple as she passed. If she hadn’t been so distracted by the rumbling of her stomach, she might have noticed the other member of the Warden party. The tall young man who hung back from his fellows, gazing around the market square as if trying not to look too out of place. 

***

She saw that Duncan was starting to make his way around the central arcade toward his companions. She quickened her stride through the crowd to remain a few paces behind the unsuspecting Warden. Seeing that he was drawing nearer to a guard patrol, she knew it was now or never. 

Deep breath. “You can do this. You know you can,” Ysabelle repeated the words over in her head like a mantra. “Quick, clean and away before they’re any the wiser.” 

Slipping a small blade from her sleeve, she moved past the shopper in front of her, and she slid past Duncan deftly cutting the cord attaching the coin pouch to his belt. She was barely a pace away before a shout erupted behind her; though not from her mark, who looked as startled as she did. 

The young man she had earlier neglected to register cried out again, “THIEF!” and to make matters worse, now he had the guards’ attention. 

Duncan had been snapped out of deep contemplation by Alistair’s shout. An equally startled redhead was stood just behind him staring at the young Warden; it took Duncan a moment to realise that the coin pouch in her hand was his. He lunged toward her but Ysabelle was already running; vaulting over the adjacent parfumier’s stall, sending scented oils crashing to the floor. She pushed past the confused vendor and sprinted off through the centre of the covered arcade. A loud crash, probably from the rest of the unfortunate parfumier’s wares, behind her alerted her to a number of guards who were now giving chase.

Duncan stepped around the remnants of the parfumier’s stall, which had been all but destroyed by the pursuing guards and wardens, and slowly made his way through the marketplace following the action at a distance. As he watched, a guard leapt out in front of the woman who made a desperate dodge to the left, rolling under the stall the elves had previously been inspecting. She was on her feet again in an instant with what would have been near-feline agility, if she hadn’t cracked her head on the underside of the counter. He saw her flash the vendor an apologetic smile on her way past. 

“Bollocks,” winced Ysabelle, fighting down the light-headedness stemming from not eating for three days and now a minor head injury, as another guard appeared ahead of her. This one had his sword drawn, but as he clumsily thrust the blade toward her she quickly twisted out of its path. With a grunt of effort, she grabbed the guard by the sword arm, dragging him forward so that his chin connected violently with the heavy coin pouch gripped in her other hand, and with a sickening crunch which almost turned her stomach, he crumbled to the floor. She ran on, pushing her way through the curious crowd.

Duncan was impressed. The unexpected activities in the market reminding him of his own misspent youth. Admittedly he would have been more impressed if it wasn’t for the sight of his funds for the rest of their travels rapidly disappearing toward the northern exit of the market place. 

Her feet skittering on the cobbles, Ysabelle had made it as far as the Chantry’s courtyard wall before the next guard blocked her way. This one hadn’t even had a chance to draw his weapon, and with a war cry of “I’m so sorry about this”, she plunged her knee at full-pace into the young man’s solar plexus. Seeing that the density of the gathered crowd to her left would hamper her progress, she decided to use her bent-double victim as a leg-up onto the wall. With a heave and a scrabble of her feet, she rolled herself over the top of the wall and dropped out of sight of the market. 

Much to the surprise of a couple of sisters, Ysabelle dropped into the Chantry courtyard between them. She knew her escape was just one more wall-scramble away. There she could get lost in the numerous back alleys of Denerim’s less reputable districts. The distraction of being so close to her goal proved her undoing, and as she reached the opposite wall the full force of someone’s body weight slammed into her. Ysabelle was sent tumbling across the dirty ground like a ragdoll, the wind completely knocked from her, and the contents of the purse scattering across the ground. Again, she had failed to register the young man from the market. He must have taken a shortcut across the opposite side of the arcade and managed to cut her off. 

Wheezing, head spinning and pain radiating from just about everywhere, she rolled over to find the point of a sword just inches from her nose. She eventually pulled her attention away from the blade and refocussed on the sword’s owner who was standing over her; a pair of fierce amber eyes were glaring down at her, from a face flushed with exertion. 

Trying to hide her nerves, she forced a tentative smile onto her face in an attempt to placate the stranger, gave an apologetic shrug and cheekily suggested, “Best two out of three…?”

***

Alistair struggled to catch his breath as he desperately tried to maintain a professionally intimidating demeanour. The chase across the market had been exhausting in the midday heat; the tunic under his armour stuck unpleasantly to his back. He continued to glare down at the woman, hoping that his comrades would arrive soon and give him a chance to seek out some shade. 

The woman on the floor appeared to have just about got her breath back, having been knocked bodily to the floor. It had been an unfortunate way of stopping her, but if she had been allowed to reach the wall she would have been long gone by now; there was no way he’d have made it up there after her in full armour. 

Her focus was entirely on the longsword pointed at her face. Somewhere around assaulting the second guard she had lost her hair tie, and now her long hair hung loose and dishevelled from the fall. A fresh abrasion was trickling blood down her forehead towards her eye, causing her to attempt to blink it away every so often. Mud and dust coated her green linen dress and the grit, which had grazed her face, had also embedded itself painfully in her palms. 

Alistair hadn’t noticed that her gaze had moved from the blade and onto him, until she spoke. Her inquisitive green eyes tentatively attempting to gauge his reaction. His attempts to think of a response were interrupted by the clank of armoured footsteps entering the courtyard. 

Denerim’s city guard had arrived at the scene, having had to push their way through the milling audience who were peering into the Chantry grounds. A smirking guardsman shoved his way past Alistair, coming to stand over contrite woman. The guard gripped her by the shoulder and dragged the woman to her feet, laughing as he did so. 

“We’ve got you this time, girl! There’ll be no weaselling your way out of this one.” he guffawed.

“Not so rough!” chastised an authoritative looking guardsman, walking toward the woman with disappointment written across his face. “You knew this would happen if you were caught again, Miss. You’ve had more than your fair share of chances.” Putting a hand on her elbow, he began to lead her away. 

“Howay, Serg!” she protested. “They got their money back! No harm done.”

“I can’t overlook this one. That man was no minor noble or mercenary.” He glanced toward Duncan, who was stood by the courtyard entrance, as he led her away. “That man is a Grey Warden. He’s just come fresh from seeing the king.”

It felt like her throat was closing up, bile tracking its way up her oesophagus. She was certain if it hadn’t been for her empty stomach the dread would have made her sick. “Please, Kylon! The caravan’s already a week late,” she implored, fighting back fearful tears. “We stretched what we had as long as we could… Kelsie and the bairns… Oh, what have I done?” Desperate realisation spreading across her face and strangling her words; with quivering shoulders she was led away, a solitary tear tracked a path down her muddy face.

“This isn’t something I want to do, you know that, but it is the law.”

As Sergeant Kylon led her away from his gleeful subordinate and toward the square, Duncan heard him whisper, “I’ll get some food to your family by this evening. I hope for their sake your cousin gets home soon.”

As they passed Duncan and his recently arrived companions, the sergeant pressed his coin pouch back into his hands with an, “Apologies, Warden.” He nodded his thanks, as the guards disappeared through the crowd.

“Are you alright, little shem?” Adanna teased Alistair as he joined the group. “You’re looking out of breath.”

“I’m fine, thank you! Anyway, I didn’t see you catching up with her,” he retorted.

“What’s the point in having a junior in the party, if we can’t let him do the leg work,” chimed in Lindel from his spot leant against the wall. He then turned his attention to his superior, who was staring after the guard party. “Is something the matter, Duncan?”

Duncan had been turning an idea over in his mind, unable to decide if it would be a stroke of brilliance or idiocy. There was no time for second guessing himself, and they had enough to be getting on with. 

“Not at all, Lindel. I was just thinking that now the excitement is over, we need to return to the task at hand.”

***

Out in the market a shout caught Duncan’s attention as a tall man in his late thirties came trotting toward them, strawberry-blond hair catching the sun and a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Duncan! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he beamed. “Whatever is going on to have drawn such a crowd?”

“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with. We just had a minor incident with a pickpocket. Alistair here ran her down, and the matter is in the hands of the guards now.”

“It wasn’t easy,” chipped in Alistair, still flushed from the experience. “She was bloody fast! If she hadn’t had to take down two guards en route, I’m not sure I’d have caught her in time.”

“Oh, Maker! What did she look like?” exclaimed Duncan’s friend, his face greying as though a horrible realisation was dawning on him. Before any of them had a chance to answer the lanky man was shoving his way through the crush to catch up to the guards. 

When the wardens caught up to Duncan’s friend, they found him deep in conversation with the guard sergeant.

“You know I wish I didn’t have to do this. Under other circumstances it would be a fine, or maybe another whipping… but this is the fifth time we’ve caught her,” Kylon was running his hands through his hair, feet shifting uncomfortably. This really wasn’t something he wanted to do. The lass had always been polite, if a little sassy, on each occasion he had come into contact with her. She had joked with his guards. Taken any punishment decided upon by his higher ups with dignity. Days like this made his job hard. “She’s been warned, Ser, many times before. It was explained in no uncertain terms that next time she would face the hangman’s noose…” his voice trailed as Duncan stepped forward. 

“Levi,” he addressed his friend, “would you care to elaborate on what is happening here?”

The tall man turned, startled at the sound of Duncan’s voice. 

“Um… your pickpocket is my cousin, Ysabelle.” The redhead gave a resigned smile and a little wave in their direction. “We took her in after her dad died, looked after her as it were.”

“Dad died when I was 19, Levi. I’m also pretty sure I’ve spent my time since then looking after our cousins and their families as much as you have. In fact, it was basically left up to me every time you menfolk were away with the trading caravan.” She didn’t mean to be cruel, but pride had gotten the better of her and she hated to be talked down to, and if she was going to be executed she wouldn’t let it happen with strangers thinking that she couldn’t take care of herself. 

“The circumstances don’t excuse the fact that she assaulted two guards today,” repeated the sergeant, concerned that he was losing control of the situation since the arrival of the Wardens.

“In my defence, Dave was going to stab me. And William… I feel bad about William…” she conceded, thinking of how the poor lad’s eyes had bulged when her knee connected.

“Please, Duncan. Is there anything you can do? I swore to her father than I wouldn’t let any harm come to her,” Levi begged. 

 

Alistair stood next to Duncan. Watching the proceedings in shock. His eyebrows looked on the verge of disappearing into his hairline. He’d never thought when he chased the woman down that she might lose her life for something as petty as pickpocketing. All he had wanted to do was impress Duncan. The remaining flush from his run across the market had disappeared as the colour drained out of his cheeks, leaving his normally near-invisible smattering of freckles standing out like constellations on a clear night. He turned his gaze on Duncan, desperate to know his decision. 

Duncan could feel multiple sets of eyes trained on him, awaiting his answer. No pressure then he thought. He had been recruited under similar circumstances, and although he’d not seen any sword work from her, from the speed at which moved she could make an excellent scout at the very least. That, and Levi’s family connection could prove useful in the future. Duncan sighed.

He turned to address the Ysabelle directly, “A blight is upon us and I am in need of Wardens. I hadn’t expected to find any recruits here in Denerim as my business here was brief and I must hasten north to test another potential recruit.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she floundered. “I’m to be executed. I’m not sure the crown offered secondments from certain death.”

At this Duncan turned to sergeant Kylon, who looked as confused by what was happening as Ysabelle. “Sergeant, I hereby invoke the right of conscription, as is my right by royal decree as Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

Both Kylon and Ysabelle stood gawping at him. The scene might have been farcical, Alistair mused, had it not been for the seriousness of the situation. 

“I… can you do that?” stuttered the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Ysabelle slowly raised her hand, “Just to clarify… does this mean I’m no longer under arrest?” 

Both men stared at her in awkward silence until she put her hand back and stood there looking demure. Alistair stood quietly in the background, a small smirk of amusement playing on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is also affectionately known in my notes as Introducing Ysabelle and hopefully it's given a flavour of her. 
> 
> I also hope you enjoyed my attempt at some action!
> 
> Next time will take us to Highever with Duncan.


	3. A Castle On The Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Cousland family prepare to send troops to Ostagar, a betrayal threatens to destroy everything and a new warden recruit is found.

It was late morning when Aedan finally dragged himself out of bed, the sun having risen to a point where, despite the thick velvet curtains, it was shining directly onto his face. Eyes heavy with sleep and hair a tousled mess, he wrenched back the offending curtain to stare out across the courtyard below. He smirked to himself as the sun’s rays warmed his body; he always enjoyed the thrill of wondering if someone would look up to the tower and see his naked form silhouetted in the window. 

Ordinarily he rose early of a morning to practice his swordsmanship and shield mastery, desperate to best his elder brother. On mornings when he could sneak away he would ride down to the coast, his mabari in tow, to canter through the waves and enjoy the quiet away from the castle. As a child he had fought many an imagined battle on that beach, dispatched invisible pirates, and saved Castle Cousland from sieges aplenty; he was ever the dashing hero riding in to save the day. 

Now he regarded the home he’d defended so many times in his mind with resentment. Why did he have to stay here under the guise of protecting the castle when, by rights, he should be riding to war with his father and brother. How would he ever prove himself as a warrior if they wouldn’t let him near a real fight. An ugly embittered look slid its way across his ordinarily handsome features, looking out of place on the face of one so young.

In truth, the real reason for his staying abed until this late hour was sheer petulance. The night before Aedan had been beseeching his father to allow him to accompany him and Fergus to the king’s aid, but upon the arrival of an unexpected visitor, Aedan had been unceremoniously dismissed from his father’s study. His father’s parting request had been that Aedan seek him out as soon as he rose in the morning. Not a chance, Aedan had thought as he sulked off to his rooms. It had been many hours before he’d heard his father’s footfalls pass by on his way to his own quarters, but despite his curiosity Aedan was too stubborn to seek out his father to ask what the intruder had wanted.

Aedan admired himself in the looking glass, which stood propped up by the door. He knew he was striking to behold; he was a tall young man with a strong jaw, and beautiful dark tousled hair. He knew well enough that if he tilted his head just right, he could get it to sweep attractively down to his quirked brow, which created a surprisingly potent swooning effect in any nearby ladies. His most recognisable feature was his brilliant blue eyes, which twinkled with boyish charm and served very well at distracting from any transgressions the nineteen-year old may have been involved in. 

Of course, if he wanted to look respectable he should really shave; his stubble was getting past rugged and heading straight for dishevelled. He smiled to himself, a mutinous thought creeping into his mind, as he grabbed for an old set of rough leather armour. This would do perfectly. This should impress upon his parents his dissatisfaction at their choices for him, without him having to say a word. His smile broadened at the thought of his mother’s face if she saw him strolling around the great hall whilst looking such a mess. 

***

It had been eight days since Ysabelle had left Denerim, only having enough time for her to change into more sensible travelling gear, pick up her mother’s old swords, and to say a stunned goodbye to Levi and her family. Kelsie, her cousin’s wife, had been tearful. Whether this was out of concern for her, or perhaps worry about how she would cope with her enormous brood on her own, or maybe just the hormones from being a month away from adding to her growing family, she didn’t know. She could only hope that their other cousins and their partners would be more willing to help. There was little Ysabelle could do about it though. She belonged to the Wardens now, whatever that meant in the long term. 

Domnall had missed all the fun in Denerim’s marketplace while he was running errands for Duncan. When he returned he was not overly impressed to hear of the conduct of their newest recruit, and even less impressed when Duncan informed him that she would be accompanying him to Ostagar. He had made sure to stow his own coin pouch within his doublet to be safe, before grunting at her to follow him. Ideally, he would have preferred to share his journey with his fellow wardens, at least as far as Lothering, before they made their way on to Redcliffe, but time was of the essence and they still needed to collect the necessary ingredients for the Joining from the Denerim Vault. So Domnall had led the way out of Denerim, offering little in the way of conversation on their journey other than occasional instructions on the proper way to make camp. 

The journey so far had felt like a lifetime, her giant travelling companion’s face an impassive mask anytime she tried to start a conversation. Ysabelle’s other means of entertaining herself had not gone down well either; her singing had drawn a glare, and the merry jig she had danced down the road, which she had foolishly thought he couldn’t see from her position behind him, had elicited a headshake. As for practicing rolling her blades over her wrists… that had resulted in her being shouted at. Although in fairness that could be because she’d accidentally smacked him in the head with one of the swords. Now she walked on in silence, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pinch of her boots rubbing against her toes. 

***

Aedan pushed open the doors to the great hall, the sea breeze he brought with him rustling the laurel adorned banners that bedecked the stone walls. The massive hall spanned the entire length of the keep. As he sauntered through the vast room, carefully maintaining an air of disinterest, he scanned its occupants for his father. 

Bryce Cousland stood deep in conversation with a grey-haired man, who Aedan instantly recognised as the Arl of Amaranthine. He had never been particularly fond of Arl Howe, whose rat-like features and snide manners made for unpleasant company. He could remember at one point his mother suggesting a betrothal between himself and Howe’s daughter Delilah. Aedan hadn’t cared one jot how such a match might strengthen family connections, and had told his parents he would rather marry his mabari than have that man for a father-in-law. He had been thoroughly reprimanded by his mother, but could still remember the look on his father’s face as he tried suppress a laugh.

“There you are, pup,” his father called out, looking over his son, and mostly managing to hide mask his disapproval at his chosen attire. Aedan managed to supress an eyeroll. He had hoped that by the time he was a grown man his father might have stopped using their pet name for him, but apparently he was destined to always be the child of the Cousland clan. Begrudgingly he decided his distaste for Howe outweighed his desire to prove a point to his parents. It was time to put his diplomatic training into practice and present the Couslands as a united front.

“Good morning, father. Good morning, my Lord,” turning to How and giving a polite bow. “How are the preparations going? Are we keeping to schedule for your leaving this afternoon?”

“I was just telling your father that my men have been delayed. Terribly wet weather in Amaranthine has hampered their progress. Maker willing, they should be here tomorrow.” A lazy smile spread across the Arl’s face to match the drawl of his words.

“Yes, I’m afraid it looks like Fergus will have to lead our men to Ostagar without me. I will remain here with Arl Howe and we will travel together once his men arrive,” Bryce explained. “I know you want to join us, pup, but I need you here. Terrible things happen during Blights and I need you here protecting our home. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.” Aedan knew the words were only designed to placate him, and yet they still went a little way to soothing his temper. 

The western doors to the hall banged closed as their late-night arrival entered. He was a tall bearded man, an island of calm standing out in the swirling sea of activity happening in the hall that morning. 

“Duncan!” Bryce beckoned the stranger over. “Duncan, this is Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine, and this is my youngest son. Duncan is the Grey Warden Commander here in Ferelden. He has come at my invitation to test Ser Gilmore.”

“Ser Gilmore might become a Grey Warden?” 

Aedan’s demeanour of casual disinterest slipped. A look of distaste crossing his face. Why was Gilmore up for consideration? Why not him? He was twice the warrior Gilmore was. The thoughts had barely crossed his mind before the guilt kicked in. Aedan and the knight had been friends since childhood. Ser Gilmore was the son of a local minor Lord, and when he was of age he had come to Highever to be a knight. It was cruel of Aedan to think such things of his friend, but the thought of Gilmore getting away from this tedium and having adventures, while he was stuck here had been almost too much to bear. 

“Are you looking for many recruits, Ser?” His enquiry received a stern glance from his father.

Duncan smiled patiently, “I look for very particular qualities in potential Grey Warden recruits, but I admit, I will take suitable candidates where ever I come across them. This is a Blight after all.”

“Not my son, Duncan,” whether he had intended to or not, Bryce had placed himself between Aedan and the Warden. In an attempt to make light of the situation and not worsen his son’s disappointment, he continued “My wife would never forgive me if I sent both our children off to war.”

“Of course, Your Lordship. While I’m sure your son would make an ideal candidate, I am here at your invitation to test another. I would not betray your hospitality in such a way.” Duncan bowed his head respectfully to the Teyrn. 

Aedan shot his father an irritated look. Again, he had seen a chance at glory within his grasp and once again one of his parents had snatched it away from him. He would have to be satisfied with moping around the castle until the armies returned from Ostagar. 

Arl Howe had been watching the interaction, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Bryce, why didn’t you tell me you had such a guest? I feel woefully under prepared to meet such company!”

“Apologies, Howe. The invitation was originally made before this business in the south. As I’m sure you can understand, Duncan’s schedule has had be brought forward.” Bryce then turned to Aedan, “We have things to discuss with Duncan, pup. Will you go and tell your brother that he will have to leave without me?”

“Yes, father.” 

Aedan was quietly seethed at yet another dismissal. What could they possibly be discussing that needed his absence. 

***

“For a man who wrestled an ogre, or whatever bullshit that was, you do seem to spend an awful lot of time on your back,” Ysabelle smirked down at Domnall, having just swept his legs out from under him. 

“Do you really intend to kick and punch at darkspawn, girl? They are disgusting creatures and I can’t imagine you wanting to get that close to them.”

“I have four limbs and a reasonably functional head, Domnall. If something is trying to kill me I intend using everything I’ve got to stop that from happening. Forgive me for assuming that might be the Warden way. I shall endeavour to spend more time on the floor in the future,” she teased before offering a hand to help him to his feet.

Ysabelle was relieved that she and her companion were finally interacting. All it had taken was half the king’s cavalry flying down the West Road at such a pace, that the pair of them had had to dive into a nearby ditch to save themselves from being flattened. The sight of Ysabelle emerging from that ditch like some mud-caked angry bog goblin, swearing unrestrainedly at the riders as they flew past, had been enough to crease him in half with laughter. From then on it seemed he was unable to maintain any kind of annoyance with her, although she did wonder how long this reprieve would last if she kept flooring him when they sparred. 

***

It was mid-afternoon as Aedan made his way in search of his brother. The curtain walls beginning to cast shadows across the courtyard, despite the sun still being high in the sky. The echoing voices of his father’s men reverberated off the thick stone walls as they readied themselves to travel. With how busy the castle had been since the message had arrived from Denerim, Aedan found it hard to imagine how quiet Castle Cousland would be once they had departed for the south.

The sounds of a disturbance were drifting his way, and as he drew nearer to the kitchen he could hearing barking. Oh no! If the Bann has got in the larder again I am a dead man. As he neared the path to the kitchen he let out a loud whistle and, stepping out of sight of the kitchen, he waited. Within seconds the sound of pounding paws came rushing down the path towards him, and the full weight of his mabari barrelled into him at chest height. Judging by the suspicious amount of grease around his muzzle, Aedan may have been too late to stop him polishing off somebody’s supper. 

The hound had been a gift from his parents when he was fifteen, and in his teenage wisdom he had thought it hilarious to title the dog ‘Bann’ and had given him lands within the castle; this consisted of a particular tree that the puppy had taken to peeing on. Despite his mother’s concern that the name may cause offense amongst the bannorn, it had stuck. 

The Bann barked happily at his master, wagging his stubby tail to such a degree that his whole hindquarters shook. “Come on. We best get out of here before you get us both in trouble!” whispered Aedan as they trotted away from the kitchen toward the upper levels of the keep, the dog licking his chops as they went. 

***

Over the sound of his boots reverberating on the stone walkway a voice rang out. “Aedan Cousland, where do you think you are going?” Eleanor Cousland emerged from the doorway he had just hurried past. His mother folded her arms as she took in his less than respectable appearance. So much for not getting in trouble.

“I see you retrieved the Bann from the kitchens,” she cradled the mabari’s muzzle in her hands, though had to raise her face out of reach of his attempts to lick her. “Though not in time to stop him demolishing our supper.” Aedan winced apologetically. Winding up his mother was more fun in theory than practice, and he knew that once the distraction of the armies marching was over he would be hearing about this for days. 

Another figure emerged from the doorway, taking in the scene with some amusement. Of all the people mother could have invited to stay while father was away, why did it have to be her? The awkward memory of his mother’s friend drunkenly propositioning him at their spring salon still made his skin crawl and brought colour to his cheeks. 

“Landra, you remember Aedan, don’t you?” the smile on his mother’s face and the mischievous joy in her eyes showing that she too remembered the spring salon, and in return for his misdeeds she was not going to save him from any discomfort that this meeting might cause.

“Oh, yes!” pushing her grey hair back from her face to get a better look at Aedan, Lady Landra chortled, “I do believe I had one too many drinks and flirted with you shamelessly when I was last here!”

Aedan scrabbled desperately to change the subject. Wicked grace was not a game he excelled at, hiding his emotions was not a skill he readily possessed, and now he was struggling to keep the look of abject horror from his face. Inspiration struck and he spun to face his mother, blurting out, “did you know there is a Grey Warden here?”

Eleanor’s lips tightened in disapproval. The honed gentility in her voice remained, though Aedan suspected this was only due to their company. “Yes, your father told me last night. He seems an honourable man apparently. He is here to test Ser Gilmore, I believe.” He could tell she was watching him to gauge his reaction, before adding, “and don’t you get any bright ideas. I’ve already told your father that I will not see both my children sent off to war!”

For once he hadn’t meant to be argumentative or cause his mother distress. He knew full well that any request to go forth seeking adventure would be vetoed, and for the next few months he wouldn’t be leaving the castle on anything other than a meander down the cobbled streets into the walled town of Highever below. The town nestled snugly behind Castle Cousland, protected from the worst of the weather coming off the Waking Sea, and from invasion by its high walls.

“I know, Mother. I’m not going anywhere,” he conceded, surprised by the amount of relief visible in his mother’s eyes. 

He knew she worried but, judging from the reports coming from the south, any skirmishes with the darkspawn had so far gone in the king’s favour and the hope was that it would not take long to quell this Blight. Suddenly not caring that there was an audience, he wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders, giving her a tight squeeze, and kissed her on the top of her head, for Eleanor was substantially shorter than her young son. 

“You worry too much. They’ll be home again before we know it.”

“Away with you,” his mother sniffled, trying to keep her composure. 

Aedan pouted at his mother in mock rejection, before grinning as he turned and headed off in search of his brother.

***

Aedan pounded up the final flight of stairs to the family quarters, hearing his brother’s laughter filling the corridor. Fergus had a warm laugh, not without a hint of mischief, which seemed to invite other to join in with it. Hearing it now, Aedan realised how odd the castle would feel without its echoing around the training ground as they sparred, or through the great hall as the family dined together, laughing at the petty politics father had had to endure in Denerim. 

The door to the room was wide open, and framed by the fireplace stood Fergus. Like his younger brother he was tall and dark haired, though where the younger sported stubble, Fergus had nurtured a neatly cropped beard which smartly covered his jaw. His right arm was wrapped around his wife’s shoulders as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, while his left was patting the head of the small boy who clung tightly to his father’s leg. 

“And here’s my little brother to see me off. Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well,” he beamed as he caught sight of Aedan and reached out a hand to beckon him into the room.

“I hate to interrupt this intimate family moment,” Aedan teased, returning his brother wide smile. 

At the sound of his voice the little boy spun around and threw his arms around Aedan’s waist. 

“Will you be looking after us while father is away, uncle Aedan?” he chirped, his eyes wide as he stared up at his uncle, chin resting neatly on his hip. He really was the spit of his father, Aedan thought as he lovingly ruffled Oren’s hair.

“That is what I heard from your grandmother, Oren,” Oriana’s soft Antivan voice drifted like music across the room. She was petite and beautiful, and fussed over her family like a mother hen. Though the initial match between Oriana and Fergus had been by their parents’ arrangement, the pair had taken an instant liking to each other and had come to love one another very much. Aedan never held out much hope for his mother managing that on his behalf.

“Fergus, father sent me to tell you Howe’s men are delayed. Some bull… nonsense about bad weather in Amaranthine,” just correcting himself in time after a stern glance from Oriana. “It’s a wonder the king bothered asking for Howe’s men at all. If they can’t cope with puddles, how will they cope in the south!”

They turned at the sound of their father’s laughter from the doorway, where Bryce and Eleanor stood smiling proudly at their family.

“Oh, so this was a ploy to get us all together?” Aedan rolled his eyes at his father.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to see our family all together before… well, before you head off,” his mother sighed, moving into the room and sweeping Oren into a cuddle. 

“I still don’t see why mother can’t be in charge of the castle,” said Aedan, trying to keep a smile from spreading across his lips. It did not go unnoticed by his brother.

“Or for that matter, why can’t she go and deal with the darkspawn?” Fergus joined in. “I’m sure she could chastise them back into the deep roads!”

“Ha. Ha. Tease your old mother why don’t you!” Eleanor frowned at her boys, knowing this would be the last time in too long that her whole family would be together, and not caring that the time was being spent teasing her. 

“I hate to cut this short,” interjected Bryce, trying to pay no heed to the hurt in Eleanor’s eyes. “I believe the men are ready, Fergus. If you want to make any progress before nightfall, you had better set off now.”

With a deep sigh and a last squeeze of his family, Fergus gathered his things. 

“Well, off I go! So many darkspawn to behead, so little time.”

With sad smiles the Couslands headed to the castle gates to bid farewell to Fergus and his men.

***

The moons soared high in the cloudless night sky, casting a milky-white glow over the courtyard, and throwing into sharp contrast the inky black shadows lurking at the base of the curtain walls. Deep within the shadows lay the merest suggestion of silent figures. If one had had occasion to stare long enough into these shadows for their eyes to adjust, then they might have seen a hint of movement as the noiseless silhouettes spread their way throughout the castle. To a casual observer, the only indicator of their existence being the occasional flash of moonlight upon a blade.

***

After a substantial supper accompanied by a fair amount of wine Aedan had collapsed face down on his bed, passing out without so much as removing his boots, let alone his armour. On any other such occasion there would have been no rousing him until after noon the next day, but his slumber was disturbed by the low insistent growls of the Bann. When Aedan eventually pushed himself into a sitting position, he could see the mabari had positioned himself between Aedan and the door. At the moment the dog’s snarl erupted into a bark, the door burst open revealing the bloodied figure of one of the servants. The man opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but before he had a chance to utter a sound he was silenced by an arrow from behind. 

Suddenly sobered, Aedan rolled silently off the bed and tucked himself behind his bedroom door, dragging the dog with him as he listened to the sound of approaching footsteps. 

A figure filled the doorway, the lamp light behind it cast a distorted shadow across the chamber floor. “Where is he?” growled a low voice with a distinctly Amaranthine accent, as two men made their way into the darkened room. 

Given the choice, Aedan would have waited for them to advance further into the room before launching his assault, but his hand was forced by the rumble emanating from the Bann. Before his would-be attackers had a chance to turn, Aedan grabbed the nearest man from behind, wrapping an arm around the intruder’s neck and clamping off his airway with the crook of his elbow. In the same moment his mabari had launched itself at the other unfortunate man. It was too dark to see in any detail how the man met his end, but the gurgling noises emanating from the darkened corner were suggestive of it being an unpleasant one. Aedan maintained his grip on his own struggling hostage even as the man stopped kicking and slumped in his arms, but he didn’t release him until the body no longer showed signs of life. 

He stepped over the men’s bodies and dragged a decorative sword and shield down from his bedroom wall, lamenting the fact that his own weapons were stowed away in the family armoury. He had been lucky that the initial assault had only involved two men, and they had evidently not expected him to be awake. He pushed aside the thoughts of what might have happened had the Bann not woken him, and instead wracked his brain to try and think who these strangers might be and why they had killed a servant and attacked him in his own rooms.

Aedan spun around as another shadow fell across his room. In the doorway stood his mother, clad in light armour, a look of cool determination in her eyes, and blood on her face, though not from any wound of her own. He realised the ease with which he had forgotten how his mother had fought in the uprising against the Orlesians some 30 years previously; she had been feared by their navy who knew her as the Seawolf. Though he had heard the stories from his father as a child, it had never felt like reality until that moment. In that doorway stood a fearsome warrior, not his soft little mother, who fussed if he hadn’t shaved and worried that he’d never find a suitable wife. 

“Aedan, are you alright?” She caught him in a swift embrace before pulling away and quickly examining him for any kind of injury, and once satisfied he was in one piece she continued, “They are Howe’s men. They are taking the castle!” 

“Where is father?”

“He never came to bed. We have to find him.”

Looking down at the carnage in his room, Aedan struggled to take in the revelation. These men. They were Howe’s men. His father’s friend of decades had swept in in the dead of night and begun to slaughter his way through their home. 

“They were never delayed, were they?” he stuttered, feeling like a little boy again as he looked to his mother for reassurance. “He waited until our men were gone, until Fergus was gone, until we were defenceless!”

His mother did not seem to have taken in the last of his words. She appeared lost in thought, something niggling away in the back of her mind. It was not until she looked at him directly that he saw the horror dawning in her eyes. 

“Oren…”

***

Mother and son rushed toward Oriana and Oren’s room, panic overwhelming them as they realised they weren’t the only ones who still remained within the family quarters. Eleanor let out a strangled scream as she pushed the door open. The moonlight shining through the undrawn curtains illuminated a haunting scene. There upon the rug in the centre of the room lay the crumpled body of Oriana, and half hidden beneath her bed lay the tiny form of Oren. The tragic tableau showing a mother’s desperate attempts to stop the soldiers getting to her little boy while he tried to hide from sight. The volume of blood seeping across the floor making evident that theirs had not been a peaceful end. 

Eleanor cried out like a wounded animal as she threw herself to the floor and took the boy in her arms, “My poor little Oren,” weeping, she buried her head in his bloodied hair.

Aedan’s legs could no longer support him, his knees buckling under his weight as he slid down the cold stone wall, desperately struggling to draw breath between inconsolable sobs. How could they do this to a child. He was just a sweet little boy. All he wanted to do was play with swords and grow up to be just like his father! Oh, Maker…Fergus. His body was trembling as he buried his head in his hands, weapons discarded at his feet.

In the silence filled room, punctuated only by occasional shaky breaths, Aedan’s faithful hound stood vigil over his family, protecting them from anyone who might try to interrupt this private moment of grief. 

After what seemed like an age, a low growl from the mabari followed by the sound of footfalls stirred the Couslands from their anguish. Eleanor reverentially lay Oren back upon the floor, kissing both his and Oriana’s foreheads before snatching up her bow. Aedan watched as devastation was overcome by rage in his mother’s eyes, and before he could take up his weapons and drag himself from the floor, she was marching down the corridor ready to receive this new group of intruders. Howe’s men would feel the wrath of the Seawolf.

***

Hate drove the Seawolf and her pup on as they cut mercilessly through Howe’s men; each blow a distraction from the harrowing sight they left behind in Fergus’s room. As they passed the family armoury, Eleanor dragged him inside. 

“You must take the family sword. It must never fall into that man’s hands,” she spat, grabbing the enchanted blade from a wall wrack and pushing it into his hands. 

“I’ll see it delivered to him point first,” snarled Aedan, grabbing his laurels emblazoned shield and a helmet from a nearby armour stand. 

“Not now. We are outnumbered and I will not risk the lives of any more of my family. Highever is lost,” the words catching in her throat. “We will find your father and make our escape by the servants’ entrance.”

As much as Aedan desperately wanted to chase down Howe, he begrudgingly conceded his mother was right. With so many of their own soldiers gone, and the horrible possibility that many more had been slain in their sleep during this stealthy attack, he had to admit that they were woefully outnumbered. 

Castle Cousland was now alight in several places, the clash of steel and cries of the wounded echoing from the walls all around them. This was nothing like the battles Aedan had imagined fighting here as a boy. This was a nightmare. His home was being torn apart, people he cared about were being slaughtered, and for what reason? He could think of none, other than greed and ambition. 

They pressed on toward the great hall, in the desperate hope that they would find Bryce there. Pushing the hall doors open, they were thrown straight into the fight. A group of their own men, led by a broad-shouldered young man with a shock of red hair, were fighting back a contingent of Howe’s mercenaries. Gilmore was alive! The momentary relief of seeing that his friend was still standing was cut short by a fireball flying past his face. By the main doors to the hall fought a mage; throwing fire and ice spells at any of their men who dared draw near to her. 

Aedan was considering how best to take down the mage, who was chipping away at their injured soldiers, but before he had a chance to decide, his mother took matters into her own hands. Anointing her arrows with mage-bane, Eleanor fired arrow after arrow into the unfortunate magic-user; mana drained and bleeding heavily, the mage was ended swiftly by one of their men. 

Aedan took advantage of the lack of spells peppering the hall to dive into the fray, shield charging a mercenary who had been swinging a great sword toward Ser Gilmore. With the mage slain, the tide of the fight changed in their favour and before long the last of the group of Howe’s men had been taken care of. The reprieve was only brief before a cry from the doors alerted Gilmore and the remaining soldiers to Howe’s reinforcements coming from the castle’s main gates. 

“Go!” bellowed Gilmore, he and his men bodily bracing the main doors to the great hall against the onslaught of the reinforcements. “Your father headed for the servants’ entrance. And the Warden, he’s out there somewhere too. Hurry. We won’t be able to hold them back for long. You have to get the Teyrn and flee!”

Aedan tried to speak. He was desperate to speak. To tell his friend to stay safe. To thank him for everything he was doing to save their people. All he could do was stand there, his mouth was moving but no sound was willing to come out. 

“Thank you, Gilmore,” it was his mother who spoke, softly touching the young knight’s shoulder, before dragging Aedan away toward the servants’ entry in the kitchens. 

***

This part of the castle was eerily quieter, it didn’t seem that Howe’s men had either made it this far yet, or considered the kitchens to be a worthy area for invasion. No fires had been lit here, and the sounds of fighting were distant, echoing over the walls as though it was happening miles away. 

A sudden whine from the Bann drew their attention to the floor. A bloody trail dripped and smeared its way toward through the kitchen and toward the pantry, to where the servants’ entrance was hidden away. 

“Father!” Aedan groaned, as he and Eleanor stumbled forward into the pantry. 

There on the floor of the darkened room sat Bryce, hunched over and clutching at his abdomen. Relief washed over his face as he saw Eleanor and Aedan framed in the doorway. 

“Oh, Bryce, what have they done to you?” whispered Eleanor, rushing forward and holding her husband to her chest. He was paled from blood loss and his breathing was shallow.

“Howe’s men… they attacked before I even knew what was happening…”

“We have to get you out of here, father!”

“It’s too late for me, pup,” a sad smile played upon his father’s lips, as he reached out a hand to cup his son’s face. “I’ll not managed standing, let alone a journey to the nearest healer.”

“I’ll carry you if I have to!” challenged Aedan obstinately, desperately rummaging through the kitchen supplies to see if he could find something to stem the bleeding.

“I think I’d leave half of me behind if you so much as tried, pup,” his father attempted to smile again. Bryce’s head remained cradled against Eleanor’s chest, his eyes heavy and voice weakened. 

“Your Lordship...”

The voice startled Aedan, who rounded with his weapon drawn, fully expecting to see more of Howe’s men come to end them. Instead, there stood Duncan, sword bloodied and face solemn. 

“Duncan!” Bryce choked, “Please, you have to get my wife and boy out of here. I’m begging you!”

Duncan was silent a moment, something almost apologetic stirring in his eyes. “I will, your Lordship, but I need something in return. I came here in need of a Warden…”

Realisation began to dawn on Aedan. It was true that less than a day earlier he would have seen this as the kind of opportunity he would have killed for, to join a group of heroes and fight in a glorious war, but a different man had woken that night. Vengeance burnt in his veins, consuming his thoughts and he would be damned before he prioritised someone else’s war over destroying Howe. 

“My duty is with my family, Warden. I will not let Howe get away with this!” he snapped.

“Aedan,” his father croaked, “you will get your opportunity in time… but if this is the only way I can see that you are saved, you must go. Duncan, please get them out of here.”

“I’m staying.” 

His mother had been silent for so long, he had almost forgotten she was there. Now the same cool determination as he had seen when she arrived at his room was written across her face as she gently settled Bryce back against the pantry wall, and readied her bow. 

“Go. I will hold them off as long as I can. But I will never leave your father.”

Hot tears tracked their way down Aedan’s face as he looked at his parents. “Please, I can’t leave you like this,” he pleaded. “I love you both. So much.”

Cupping her son’s face in her hands, Eleanor placed a kiss on his forehead. “You must get to Ostagar. Tell Fergus what has happened. Tell them all!” tears beginning to streaming down her cheeks. 

Distant voices drew their attention, and as Eleanor nocked an arrow ready to receive this new wave of invaders, Duncan led Aedan away toward the pantry’s hidden exit. 

“Run,” she whispered after the disappearing figures of the Warden, her youngest boy and his faithful mabari, before turning to face the door to the kitchens. 

There, in that darkened room, her husband dying at her feet, the Seawolf made her last stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter for me, so thank you for bearing with me! Also massive thanks to my friends on tumblr who encouraged to keep writing it when I was really struggling!
> 
> Next chapter will see all our wardens finally meeting and taking a trip into the Wilds.


	4. Into the Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysabelle, Alistair and Aedan have all finally made it to Ostagar. The Wardens prepare for the Joining ritual and in the process meet some interesting characters in the Korcari Wilds.

Sat with her legs dangling over the edge of one of the fortress’s many crumbling parapets, Ysabelle watched the sun rise. Little by little the pink-tinged light began to illuminate the many pools of the wetlands, glowing like an eerie halo far below her feet. The Wilds looked at their most beautiful at this time of day. 

Every morning since their arrival at Ostagar she had crept away from the warden camp, and waited in the cold and the dark to see that glow creep over the horizon. It was a world away from Denerim, where she had spent the last ten years of her life. The only thing the pink light of dawn illuminated near her old home was the sewage that ran through the backstreets as the tide came in up the Drakon river. 

Wispy clouds were racing from the south, and she shivered in the face of the cold breeze that carried them. How was it that, despite it still being summer, the winds coming off the Wilds were icy cold. She chastised herself for not having thought to bring a blanket. 

Ostagar stood high upon the clifftops, overlooking the basin of the Korcari Wilds, sheer cliffs hemming them in with only the occasional paths scaling them; these were so steep that only mountain goats and the foolhardy tended to travel them. An ornate, if crumbling bridge allowed Ostagar to straddle the narrow pass, which was the only real route out of the Wilds to the lowlands of Ferelden’s farming country. 

Ysabelle watched as the dawn light highlighted the grey stone of the old Tevinter fort in vibrant hues of pink and orange. Far below her feet, the bridge cast dramatic shadows on the valley floor. 

So, this was where the army planned to meet the hoard, or so she had been told. The logic was sound. Even if they were outnumbered, the hoard wouldn’t be able to press the full advantage of its numbers as the pass would have a funnelling effect. This should hopefully allow the king’s men to chip away at the advancing darkspawn without being overwhelmed. 

Still, something did not sit right with her. She had felt her tension growing the closer they had drawn to the Wilds, like a knot continually tightening in the pit of her stomach. The sensation couldn't be allayed despite Domnall’s reassurances. For all the soldiers' high spirits and the king’s apparent confidence, she felt exposed up on that outcrop. With the vibrant colours of the tents in the king’s camp visible for miles around, and the noise coming from the ever-growing army camp to the west, it seemed a miracle they hadn’t been attacked yet. With each passing day, it was like a shadow was growing within the Wilds, and she couldn’t help but watch it happening with morbid fascination. 

She swung her legs back onto solid ground, taking one last look down into the narrow pass, before she wandering back to camp. If she didn’t hurry, her absence would be noticed, leading to yet another scolding from Domnall. 

******

Alistair stared blearily out of his tent. He’d rather not be awake in time to see the dawn illuminating the sky, but it was his turn to build the fire and get breakfast started. Well, he hoped they like porridge which resembled sludge, because that was about the extent of his cooking abilities. He dragged on a pair of leather breeches and boots, before staggering off to get water from the well for a wash. 

They were camped within the ruins, on the outskirts of the king’s camp. Duncan had sent word that the new recruits should be kept separate from the army and the main body of the wardens for now, and so Domnall and his recruit had set up their camp here. When Alistair’s party had arrived a week later with their new recruit, they had set up their tents just down the ramp, near the ash warrior encampment. 

He had barely seen the Warden-Constable since they arrived; according to Lindel, he was spending a lot of time training the woman from Denerim. Alistair had caught a glimpse or two of her since they arrived, but since their last interaction had involved him shoving a sword in her face… well, he had no idea how you would go about talking to a person after that, and so he had done the logical thing and hidden from her. 

He released a torrent of freezing well-water over his head, snapping himself out of his reveries with a yelp as goosebumps erupted over his torso. Maker knows how the water could be that cold when it was still summer, he thought to himself. Shivering, he scrabbled around for the soap and a washcloth. The shock had served to wake him fully, but it also made him acutely aware of how unpleasant the rest of this wash was going to be.

\--

Alistair trudged back to camp, still shivering from the icy water. The quiet sound of humming drew his attention. Coming from the bridge was the woman he had been trying so hard to avoid. She hadn’t noticed him yet, sauntering along and looking at her feet as she hummed. Domnall had mentioned something about an irritating habit of her singing to herself when she was distracted. Sometimes he knew the songs, sometimes they were just outlandish rhymes that must have been made up, and half the time he wasn’t sure she even knew she was doing it. For now, she was just humming as she kicked pebbles along ahead of her. 

This was the first time he’d had the opportunity to get a proper look at her since he’d arrived at Ostagar. This morning she was dressed in tan leather breeches and dark leather boots which laced up over her knee. A loose linen smock, which might have doubled as a night shirt, hung untucked midway down her thigh. Her hair was in a loose copper plait which fell down her back, judging by how ruffled it was at the back of her head, she had probably slept with it that way. With the residents of the king’s camp traditionally rising later than those in the army camp, she had probably not expected to run into company. As she drew nearer he could see how tired she looked, the dark circles under her eyes were large enough that they were still visible despite her face being downturned, and she was ghostly pale. He wondered if she’d actually slept at all since leaving Denerim. 

With a pang of guilt, he noticed a small scar above her left eyebrow, where on their last meeting there had been a trickle of blood cascading its way down her face. Maybe it was a good thing that he had been avoiding her since he arrived.

Just as he decided to try and sneak out of sight, she bumped straight into him, putting her hands out instinctively to cushion the impact. Alistair gave a little gasp at the touch of freezing cold hands on his bare chest. She seemed to have only just realised what was happening, her eyes widening in horror at the sight of her own hands still resting on his chest, colour flooding her cheeks. Her eyes were now darting between his face and back to her hands which seemed to be frozen in place by panic. He could have sworn he’d seen her mouth ‘oh shit.’ The more the colour flushed her cheeks, the redder he went, and the more he wished he’d worn a shirt.

“Good morning,” he managed, his voice strangled and not his own.

“Hello,” she croaked in return, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.

“I need to-”

“Yes, me too-”

They had darted in opposite directions, as fast as either one of them could pass off as walking. 

\--

Shamefaced and beetroot, Ysabelle scuttled back towards her tent, desperately hoping that nobody else had witnessed that disastrous scene. 

“Nicely done.” A quiet voice and a cheeky smile caught her attention. 

The caged prisoner grinned at her across the upper courtyard. He’d been arrested for desertion, but he’d admitted to Izzy that what he’d really been doing was stealing. She knew the need well and had taken pity on him, bringing him food whenever she could, much to the chagrin of his guard. He’d also rewarded her with a key to a supply chest in the mages’ quarters. 

Izzy shook her head and smiled back at him. “Quiet, you!” she mouthed, turning an imaginary key to her lips, before continuing on her way. So much for nobody seeing. She rubbed slow circles on her temples, not knowing whether to throw her head back and laugh, or just mourn her lost dignity.

When she got back to the tents, Domnall was already up and had made a start on breakfast. He looked as though he was about to reprimand her for having wandered off in the night again, but as she neared and he got a better look at her, a glint of amusement began to spread its way across his features.

“What happened to you?” he smirked. Obviously, she was still red-faced. 

“Absolutely nothing.”

He glanced down the ramp toward their companions’ camp, and was just in time to see Alistair scrabbling around for a smock to put on. His boom of laughter could have woken the entire camp, and it was definitely enough to draw a harried glance and crimson blush from the rapidly dressing warden.

“Fuck off,” whispered Izzy, wiggling her eyebrows emphatically as he turned his grin on her. She launched a pebble at him, settling herself on the opposite side of the fire. 

“Lass, I don’t know how you get yourself into these situations!” Domnall was still laughing mercilessly. 

“Stop laughing! I don’t do it on purpose!” she aimed a kick at him round the campfire before giggles overtook her. 

“Ok, ok, I’ll stop,” he plonked himself down beside her and handed over a bowl of what turned out to be particularly unappetising porridge. 

“Only because you’re within elbow range, I’m sure.”

They ate in comfortable silence, punctuated only by his shoulders occasionally shuddering with laughter, and her digging an elbow into his ribs. 

When she left Denerim three weeks ago, Ysabelle couldn’t have imagined that her travelling companion would have become a friend. The majority of their bonding had happened over the numerous times she’d made somewhat of a fool of herself, but it didn’t matter to her because, despite the laughter, he had offered her nothing but stolid support and seemed genuinely concerned about her wellbeing. 

He had given up a great deal of his personal time to help improve her combat training. She was now confident in swordplay, not solely the daggers with which she was previously adept. He’d felt this was important, insisting, “You need to maintain some distance between you and those darkspawn, lass,” and so they had practiced for hours every day since they’d arrived at Ostagar. 

Now, she had the strength and skill to wield two long swords, though her preferred weapons were the short swords that had once belonged to her mother. The leather wraps upon the handles were worn by the hands of the woman she’d long since forgotten the face of. The markings in the worn leather fit her so perfectly, she could only assume that their hands must have been the same size and shape, and she found that wielding the swords brought her an odd sense of comfort.

Izzy realised Domnall had started talking, though from the look he was giving her, he knew full well she had been in another world. 

“I said, Duncan should be arriving this morning with the lad from Highever. The boy lost his whole family overnight. Duncan’s concerned he’s not coping well.” 

It wasn’t like Domnall to divulge this much, so it must be important. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.” He nodded gratefully at her.

“Once they arrive, I’ll be leaving you with Duncan. Judging by the progress of the hoard, there’ll be a rush to get the Joining sorted. You’ll be far too busy to even notice that I’ve gone with the others to the main warden camp.”

“About the Joining…”

“You know I can’t tell you anything, so stop trying your luck!” He gave her a stern look before returning to business, “anyway, there will be a task for you and the other recruits to complete beforehand, and Alistair will be there to guide you.”

“Oh no.” It seemed the fates were conspiring to make a fool of her again. 

“I thought you’d like that,” he chuckled. “So, this is the last morning you will have to put up with my cooking until after the battle.”

“End of an era really,” she responded with a mocking pout, “and stomach cramps.”

******

As the imperial highway turned westward, Ostagar loomed into view. Its towers and spires rising up above the pine forest, framed dramatically against the Frostbacks. They had been on the road for almost three weeks. Aedan’s anger had subsided into silent despair that hung over him like a cloud. Duncan had been particularly taciturn since their escape, leaving the young man to his ruminations. For now, the only comfort the young man received came from the Bann. The mabari walked every pace of their three-week march at Aedan’s heel, his muzzle nudging at Aedan’s hand whenever it was within reach. 

They stopped regularly in townships as they travelled down the eastern shore of lake Calenhad, so that Duncan could send and receive reports, though he divulged little of the information he learned to Aedan. 

Three days previously the imperial highway had taken them south, passing over craggy moorland and then into dense forest. There had been no villages substantial enough for them to receive any updates from Ostagar, and so Duncan had quickened the pace. They had set off before dawn that day. Duncan appeared tenser the closer they grew to the Wilds, and over the last few days they had been travelling well after nightfall and rising hours before dawn. This didn’t bother Aedan. Sleep offered him little respite; every dream led him back to Highever, forcing him to relive the terrible things he’d seen and done that night, and replenished his guilt at having left his parents. 

\--

Upon their arrival at Ostagar, Aedan was surprised to be greeted by the king, who shone in golden armour, and wore a broad smile on his face as he welcomed Duncan. Cailan had been kind and understanding as Aedan struggled through describing the events that had befallen the Couslands. His outrage seemed genuine and before parting he had promised that, once the battle was done, he would send his army north to deal with Howe. 

“Do you really believe this is a Blight?” he’d waited until Cailan was out of sight before pressing Duncan for details. “The king seems very confident that it will be over soon.”

“I’m afraid this is a Blight. We Wardens know it. It’s difficult to explain how, but trust that this is a very real danger.”

“Could the battle go as well as he hopes?”

“I would prefer it if we could wait for warden reinforcements from Orlais, but sadly I don’t think the darkspawn will permit us the time. We must make do with the forces we have. I do hope the battle will go as well as the king predicts… but we must not assume it will be so.”

They passed through the eastern ruins and out on to the bridge, Aedan venturing closer to the edge take in the view of the ravine below. The Bann whined unhappily at him, as if to scold him for getting too close to the drop. He could see that wooden defences had already been erected in the valley, creating an even narrower entrance to the pass. This would be where the army would make their stand and hopefully the darkspawn would fall. He gazed further out into the wilderness, hoping that wherever Fergus was scouting, he was at least safe. 

******

At the news of Duncan’s arrival, the party of Wardens gathered around a large pyre at the centre of the king’s camp. It was the first time they had all been together since Denerim. The purpose of their gathering was to prepare Alistair, as the junior member of the order, to take the new recruits to collect darkspawn blood for the Joining. The separation of their party after Denerim had meant that no one Warden had gotten to know all three recruits. 

“So, what do I need to know?” Alistair asked with some trepidation. This was an important task and he would be responsible for the recruits while they were out there. This would most likely be their first encounter with darkspawn, and despite the fact that he had not encountered huge numbers himself, it was up to him to guide them through it and do his best to bring them back safely. 

Adanna began, “Well you’ve met Jory, obviously. He’s good with a great sword. We all saw him sparring when he nearly took Lindel’s head off,” she grinned, turning a smug gaze on her partner, who looked less than impressed. “His combat is a little slow, though, that’s to be expected with that kind of weapon.”

Alistair had been part of the party who had picked up Jory from Redcliffe, a visit he had been less than enthusiastic about making. He seemed a pleasant enough man, though extremely boring, but as Adanna pointed out, he was a proficient warrior. 

“You’ll want to keep an eye on Ysabelle,” Domnall gave him the kind of knowing look that made heat rise uncomfortably up the back of his neck. “She’s fast on her feet, and with her blades, but I get the feeling she’ll be one to run headlong into situations that she’s in no state to deal with on her own.” The groups members exchanged glances. “She’s no glory hunter, mind, just the protective type I’d wager.”

“And the final recruit?” Alistair turned to Duncan. It was so good to see him again after almost a month. He loved his compatriots dearly, but he hadn’t been in the order long enough to feel an automatic sense of duty and knowledge of what he needed to do at any one time. It was good to have Duncan back, and for things to feel like they had direction again. 

“Aedan has been through a lot. As you know, he just lost his family. He is distracted, but we don’t have time to wait for him to grieve. We need to perform the Joining tonight.”

From the look on Duncan’s face they could tell it would not be long until the hoard was upon them. They could all sense the darkness within the Wilds growing to some degree, but none had been a Warden as long as Duncan. None could sense the tainted creatures with the accuracy he could. 

Alistair worried for Duncan. He had been his saviour, and then his mentor. These last few months seemed to be taking their toll on him, he was visibly aged and exhausted. He had also confessed to Alistair that he had started to have nightmares; the kind he had not had for nigh on thirty years. 

“I understand, Duncan,” Alistair tried his best to sound confident and reassuring. “I’ll take care of them.”

Their meeting was cut short by the arrival of a messenger. Alistair’s presence had been requested by the revered mother. Duncan had rolled his eyes, but instructed him to see what she wanted. 

******

The sheer scale of the ruins was overwhelming, though the king’s camp itself was easier to navigate as it was restricted to Western ruins. When parting from Duncan Aedan had been instructed to find a warden named Alistair, and to familiarise himself with the camp. 

So far, he’d distracted himself by listening to the stories of the ash warriors, and the Bann had been very excited to meet the other mabari in the king’s kennels. He had been run off by templars when he attempted to enter the mage camp, apparently, they were in the fade and not to be disturbed. He couldn’t see into the camp properly but whatever was going on, it there looked extremely odd. He had thought the fade was where you went when you slept. It must be different for mages… unless they sleep standing up waving their arms around. 

As he’d been shooed away by the templars he had met an older mage called Wynne. She had recognised him as Duncan’s new recruit and they had chatted for a while about darkspawn and the Chantry’s beliefs on their creation. 

After leaving Wynne, he’d climbed the ramp to the north-west corner of the camp. Here he found a couple of residential tents alongside the workplace of the healers, a Chantry sister preaching to a small crowd and a makeshift gaol, though this appeared to only have one resident and a particularly irritable guard. Through an arch to the west he could see out to the army camp, and presumably somewhere amongst it the main warden camp. 

\-- 

Ysabelle was lounging with her back against a fir tree near the gaol. She’d chatted with the prisoner for the while, much to his guard’s distaste, before the poor man had drifted off to sleep. Stuck for a way to amuse herself, she decided to attempt to cut away the skin of an apple in one long strip. The cuts on her thumb were testament to how well this plan was working out. 

She had been lost in concentration when she was unceremoniously headbutted by a large mabari. He appeared to be curious about whether apples counted as dog food. Ysabelle stowed away her knife as an inquisitive nose snuffled away at her half-peeled apple, and was ruffling the dog’s ears when Aedan trotted over to retrieve his investigative hound.

“I’m sorry, is he bothering you?” 

Ysabelle pushed her hair back out of her face to get a better look at the young, who stood silhouetted against the morning sun. He was tall and broad, and if she squinted against the sun, she could just make out vibrant blue eyes.

“Not at all,” she smiled. “Are you alright, love? You look a little lost.” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Aedan’s reply was defensive. He hated the idea of looking as helpless as he felt. “I just need to find a Warden and let him know I’ve arrived.” 

Ysabelle realised that this must be the lad from Highever, the one who lost his family, and that means Duncan must have returned. She did her best to shake off the creeping feeling of apprehension at what trials may lie ahead. 

“You must be the final recruit. I’m Ysabelle, Duncan recruited me in Denerim. There’s another bloke around here somewhere, Jory, I think his name is. Can’t say I’ve spoken to him much,” she rambled on as Aedan offered a hand to help her to her feet, adding conspiratorially, “I don’t know if it’s a woman thing or a commoner thing, but I get the impression he doesn’t approve of me.” The lad still looked tense, shifting from foot to foot like he was anxious to get somewhere. “Who else were you looking for?”

“A warden named Alistair?” Aedan asked tentatively. 

_Oh, now I’m beginning to think there’s is a higher power having a right old laugh here._

“I saw him head off towards the old chapel.” Remembering what Domnall had told her, she took pity on him. “I can show you the way, if you want?”

“Please,” relief stole momentarily across his face, “I’m Aedan, by the way.”

“Ha! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even give you time to introduce yourself. I’d like to think I’m not usually this rude…” she laughed, and this time the smile stayed on Aedan’s face. 

Much to the disappointment of the Bann, Ysabelle snuck the apple into the prisoner’s cage before leading the way across the camp toward the chapel. 

\--

Approaching the chapel, they found Alistair deep in conversation with a mage, who appeared to be growing more irritated by the second. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this way!” he spat, a vein visibly throbbing on his temple.

“I hope you're quick with that shield, friend. I’ve a feeling our colleague is on the brink of getting zapped,” she whispered in Aedan’s ear, subtly sliding behind his shoulder to view the show from relative safety. He chuckled but unstrapped the shield from his back to be on the safe side. 

“Oh, yes. I was harassing you. By delivering a message.” If Alistair was trying to not look condescending, it wasn’t working. Aedan and Ysabelle exchanged a glance.

“Your glibness does you no credit,” snarled the mage, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

“And here I thought we were getting on so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you… the grumpy one.” As Alistair smiled sweetly at the mage, both Ysabelle and Aedan moved back a little, wincing simultaneously. This could definitely end painfully. 

Luckily for Alistair, it did not. 

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must! Get out of my way, fool!” the mage barged past the startled recruits and headed down the ramp to the main courtyard. Ysabelle just managed to duck behind Aedan in time to avoid being flattened by the enraged magic-user. 

Alistair finally noticed Aedan, and turned to the new arrival with a shrug, “You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together.”

“I know just what you mean.”

He was halfway through joking that the whole business was like a party before he realised it wasn’t the young man that had spoken. The words had come from Ysabelle who, after that morning’s incident, he had very much been hoping to avoid until it was absolutely necessary. Barely stumbling over his words, he continued, “we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would really give the darkspawn something to think about.”

Alistair ran his fingers through his hair, “Fancy seeing you here, before this morning I would have thought you were avoiding me!” 

_Oh, Maker why did I mention this morning?_

“Perish the thought,” she gave him an apologetic smile, but couldn’t quite maintain eye contact. 

_I’m never going to live down this morning, am I?_

A small cough pulled their attention back to the present. “I’m Aedan, if anyone was wondering.” His brow quirked in thinly veiled amusement as he pondered what might have happened to make this meeting so awkward. 

******

Alistair and his recruits scrambled down the steep trail into the valley bottom, past the wooden barricade and out into the Wilds. Spread out ahead of them were the vast mires and forests of the Korcari Wilds; if the legends were to be believed it was home to more than just Chasind and invading darkspawn. 

They were barely out of the shadow of Ostagar when they came across the survivor of a slain scouting party. A darkspawn attack had killed his scouting party, he described the creatures as springing from the ground with no warning. At Ysabelle’s insistence they carried him back to the nearest guard post. It was obvious that he would never have made the steep trek without them. 

Witnessing the aftermath of the darkspawn attack had left Ser Jory anxiously fretting about the possibility of running headlong into the bulk of the hoard. Ysabelle and Aedan exchanged tired glances, as Alistair tried to reassure the knight.

“There are darkspawn around, but we are in no danger of running into the hoard, Ser knight.”

“How can you know that?” Jory protested.

“We Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. That is why I was sent with you, to make sure you didn’t run into too much trouble.” Alistair lay a reassuring hand on Jory’s shoulder, though it did not stop his fussing.

“I just wasn’t expecting more trials, that’s all. I’m no coward! I just keep thinking about my wife, Helena, she is heavy with child.”

Ysabelle gawped at him, and before she could stop herself she blurted out, “You abandoned your pregnant wife to come and play hero?”

“I did not abandon her!” he snapped back, “I’ll be with my family again as soon as the Blight is over!”

The fleeting pained expression on Aedan’s face drew Izzy's attention from the thoughtless knight, and sapped her irritation. She gave Aedan’s arm a reassuring squeeze, her brows knotted in concern. He lay his hand over hers, squeezing it in return; an acknowledgement that, while he might not be at his best, he could still carry on. 

“Nobody is calling anybody a coward,” Alistair looked around his divided party, trying to summon up the kind of stern look he used to receive on a daily basis during his templar training. “We need to keep moving. Those treaties won’t collect themselves, and we need to be back before nightfall.”

\--

They had encountered a pack of wolves and a number of small darkspawn raiding parties as they travelled deeper into the forest, enough to collect the blood they needed. They made quite a formidable team, despite there only being four of them, Alistair mused. In spite of the memories that troubled his mind and occasionally served to distract him, Aedan had proven himself to be extremely proficient with a shield. Jory’s swing was formidable, he could understand why Duncan had recruited him. As for Ysabelle, she seemed to have a preternatural ability at sensing when something was wrong in their surroundings. She seemed to pick up on the darkspawn almost as quickly as he did. Her sword work was quick and he was glad to see she stuck close to the group, Domnall must have had a word before they left camp. 

The Wilds felt alien to Ysabelle, so different to the untamed beauty she stared out at every morning. It was like a sickness lay over the land. The deeper in they ventured, the more twisted the natural landscape appeared, and the heavier the silence weighed around them. It was in these moments of intense silence, when she could feel the hairs standing up on her arms, that she knew something was coming, and so far, her senses hadn’t let her down. Every time the prickling sensation had begun within minutes they had been set upon by those disgusting creatures. She was glad Domnall had insisted on her learning to wield longer blades, and made a mental note to tell him so when she saw him again. 

As they approached a makeshift bridge by some ruins they heard the cackle of a Hurlock. They were hideous creatures, the height of a human, with gaping mouths lined with sharp teeth and black soulless eyes. There was something different about this one though, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She was trying to get a better look when Aedan dragged her behind his shield, just at the moment the spell hit her shoulder. It burnt through her right shoulder guard like acid, leaving a shallow burn on her skin. There was no time to think about what damage might have been done if he hadn’t grabbed her, or to thank him, as arrows began to fly at them from across the bridge. 

Hugging the treeline on the eastern side of the path, using Aedan’s shield for cover, they advanced slowly on the bridge. Following their lead, Alistair led Jory toward the bridge from the opposite side of the path. 

To the surprise of her companions, Ysabelle yelled for them to stop when they were only halfway across the bridge. The darkspawn emissary and its archers had retreated a little way back, enough to try and draw them into giving chase. It was a blatant trap, she thought as she grabbed a handful of stones and scattered them into the grass on the opposite side of the bridge. A chorus of metallic snaps revealed the long grass had disguised a row of brutal leg-hold traps. 

“Always bring a rogue!” she called out to the others, an arrogant smile spreading across her lips. 

She drew her swords as a couple of Genlocks charged the end of the bridge, but before she could get to them Jory had stepped out from behind Alistair's shield and made swift work of them with a broad sweep of his great sword. Alistair and Aedan rushed forward to deal with the archers, using their shields for cover as they charged headlong into them. Jumping up onto one of the rickety bridge posts, Ysabelle planted a kick in the face of a Hurlock that was intent on giving chase after Aedan and Alistair. It fell back into a section of long grass, a satisfying snap signifying it had found one of its own traps. 

She turned to see another Hurlock advancing on Ser Jory from behind, as he tackled another wave of Genlocks. Throwing herself into the fight, she only just arrived in time to parry a blow that would surely have cleaved Jory’s head in two. Before she had a chance to regroup, the frustrated darkspawn brought the pommel of its sword down and hit her squarely between the eyes. Everything went black. 

\--

Alistair had turned in time to see her fall to the ground. He called out to Jory, who up until the sound of clashing steel right behind his head, had been completely unaware of the advancing Hurlock. A swift strike from the great sword put an end to his would-be assailant. Jory remained standing vigil over the unconscious Ysabelle, while Alistair and Aedan cleared up the remaining darkspawn. A brutal strike from Aedan’s shield had sundered the emissary’s staff in two, and a sweep of his sword had relieved it of its head. 

Once the last of the darkspawn were dead, the three of them gathered around the unconscious woman. 

“Well, she’s still breathing,” announced Alistair, “though, she’ll have corking black eyes if we’re not back in time to get her looked at by a healer.”

He was livid, though he wasn’t sure if he was angry at her for putting herself in a position to be hurt, or whether he was annoyed at himself for not paying enough attention to all of his charges. 

“Did we win?” the slightly slurred question came from the figure now staring blearily at them from the floor. 

“What were you thinking?” snapped Alistair.

“Why are you yelling at me?” her attempt at a confused frown hampered by the pain emanating from her forehead at any attempt to move her eyebrows. Her eyes were struggling to focus on the swirling landscape around her. 

“You could have got yourself killed!” Alistair continued his rant.

Ysabelle sighed drowsily and muttered, “You’d be so pretty if you didn’t have _so many_ eyes,” as she attempted to focus on Alistair’s face. Her head lolled back against the ground as a dazed smile settling on her lips. 

Aedan burst out laughing at Alistair’s ears turning crimson. “Well, she is certainly concussed! And in all fairness to her, I’m fairly certain she saved Jory from a particularly close shave.”

“It’s true,” the knight conceded, “I was caught off guard while dealing with some Genlocks.”

“And you would be prettier without so many eyes,” Aedan leaned in to tease their superior.

“Oh, shut up and help me get her on her feet.”

\--

They had decided to stop briefly while Aedan looked over Ysabelle’s injuries. She still seemed a little woozy but had definitely improved compared to when she initially woke. They were sat on an old log in a clearing, Aedan applying salve to a couple of his own magic burns, Izzy examining her ruined armour, whilst Alistair and Jory investigated an old Chasind cache on the edge of the clearing. 

“Here. Put this on,” Alistair plonked a huge horned helmet on her head. It stank of earth and sweat, and was definitely not a good fit, the eye holes resting a cheek height. 

“Seriously? I can’t see a bloody thing!” Izzy protested, “If I turn my head, it doesn’t move with me at all. I’m looking at an ear pad right now.”

“Maybe it would have stopped you getting knocked out,” Alistair insisted.

“You think so?” she snorted, “I think it would have made a noise like a milk pail getting kicked over, and then I’d have been knocked out.”

Taking pity on Ysabelle, Aedan lifted the helmet off her head and helped her to her feet. She tried to protest that she was fine, but she was still a little unsteady. The sun was starting to lower in the sky and they still had the Warden cache to find. 

“Shall we get moving?” he suggested, as he steadied a slightly swaying Ysabelle. 

\--

Leaving the clearing, they began to ascend a ridge toward a large open ruin. The building’s roof had long since collapsed in and most of the walls were gone. It was impossible to know whether the building's decay had been through natural means or whether the Chasind had been using the stones for their own buildings. In a similar way to Ostagar, trees had pushed their way through the stone pavers, leaving the floor precarious where roots cracked stone. 

At the base of a ramp, near a small cluster of trees stood a chest. At least it might have qualified as a chest once. It's sides had buckled and the lid was splintered as though the roof had toppled in on it. They could make out griffons emblazoned upon the remaining metalwork. This must be the cache they were looking for, but the chest stood empty.

As they gathered around the ruined chest, a voice rang out from behind them.

“What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

The speaker stood at the top of the ramp. She was a dark-haired beauty, probably of similar age to Ysabelle, who oozed confidence as she slowly swaggered her way toward the group. Her shrewd eyes were golden, animal-like as they glowed in the light of the sun. 

While her companions stood in shocked silence, Ysabelle was the first to find her voice, “I am neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this tower.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, though did not seem displeased with the response, “‘Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse,” she continued to regard them with some interest, “I have watched your progress for some time. “Where do they go,” I wondered, “why are they here?”.

“Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby,” Alistair had snapped out of his shocked state and moved forward to place himself between the woman and his recruits. 

She threw her head back and laughed, “Ha! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” waving her arms in mock fright, as though fighting off some kind of invisible assault.

“Yes. Swooping is bad,” his eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

With the roll of her eyes, the woman refocussed her attention on Ysabelle, “You there, you have a woman’s mind. You do not frighten so easily. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilised.” She waited expectantly. 

She wasn’t wrong, Izzy felt nothing but curiosity toward the enigmatic stranger. “I’m Ysabelle. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. _You_ may call me Morrigan,” she smiled, ready to continue her word games as she scanned their faces. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?”

“Here no longer?” Alistair interjected, his temper rising fast, “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

Isabelle couldn’t stop herself from giving Alistair an incredulous look. She squeezed the bridge of her nose as she imagined what their more senior colleagues would think of the impression they were giving out. 

“How very eloquent,” Morrigan smirked, her amusement fuelled by the expression on Ysabelle’s face. “How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems,” he was determined not to let his embarrassment over his last comment overtake him. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.” 

“I will not,” she scoffed, “for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.”

“Then who removed them?” Aedan chipped in. 

Morrigan regarded him coolly, “‘Twas my mother, in fact.”

“Can you take us to her?” It was Ysabelle who made the request. She was keen to leave the forest, and the quicker they got the treaties the sooner she would be able to find a healer to see to her increasingly painful shoulder. 

“There is a sensible request. I like you.”

“I’d be careful,” muttered Alistair. “First it’s, “I like you-” but then “Zap!” Frog time.” He didn’t like feeling as though they had lost control of the situation. 

Morrigan rolled her eyes at him, “Follow me, then, if it pleases you.” She gestured for them to follow her through the marsh. 

Aedan turned to Alistair, “Frog time?” he whispered, “what are you going on about?” Alistair just shrugged, resigned to their new course of action.

\--

The journey to Morrigan’s home in the middle of the wetlands had been surprisingly uneventful. Despite Alistair being sure he could sense them, there had not been a single darkspawn attack as they travelled. It was as though something in that wood was keeping their party hidden. Morrigan had led Ysabelle to the head of the party, and under Alistair’s suspicious glare, she had healed her shoulder. Some light scarring remained but the pain was gone. She had also given her a potion for the concussion. Speaking loudly enough to make sure she was overheard, Morrigan did warn that the potion only worked on injury related headaches, and that Ysabelle would have to find other means of dealing with headaches generated by fools in her company. Alistair took the hint and retreated to chat with Aedan at the back of the group, though he kept a close eye on the apostate. 

The trail opened out into a clearing on the edge of a mere, where a small hut had been built up next to more of the ruins that littered the Wilds. An elderly grey-haired woman leant against the hut, watching their approach with narrowed eyes. 

“Greetings, mother,” Morrigan called out, “I bring four Grey Wardens who-” She was cut off abruptly. 

“I see them girl.” Morrigan’s mother made her way forward, inspecting each of the wardens closely. “Hmm, much as I expected.”

“Are we supposed to believe that you were expecting us?” As soon as the words left his lips, Alistair wished he had not spoken. The woman regarded him with the same cold stare Morrigan had earlier. 

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," her voice clipped, before going on to muse, "shut one’s eyes tight, or open one’s arms wide. Either way one is a fool.” She seemed amused by the confused looks being exchanged between wardens. Her eyes glided over the young faces in front of her, “So much about you is uncertain and yet I believe… do I? Why it seems I do.” 

“Do you think she could be a witch of the wilds, like the guards were talking about in camp?” Aedan whispered to Jory. The comment did not go unheard.

The woman laughed heartily, “Witch of the wilds? Morrigan must have told you that! She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!” She threw her head back, cackling loudly as her daughter cringed. 

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, mother,” Morrigan muttered, looking as though she wished the ground would swallow her whole. 

“Yes, yes. They came for their treaties,” her mother chuntered, as she headed briefly into the ramshackle hut. 

When she returned, treaties in hand, she fixed Alistair with a stern stare, “And before you begin barking, your precious seals wore off long ago. I have protected these. Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell that this Blight’s threat is greater than they realise.” 

With these words of warning still playing on their minds, they were led from the Wilds by Morrigan, though she did not venture as far as Ostagar.

 

******

 

Alistair had left the recruits at the entrance to the king’s camp, muttering something about preparations. They gathered by Duncan, who finally seemed willing to tell them more about the Joining ritual. 

“I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy priced to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later,” Duncan’s face was solemn.

“You’re saying this ritual can kill us?” Ysabelle’s voice was steadier than she felt. Logically, she knew she had already lived a month longer than she would have done, but the thought that whatever they were about to go through could end her in an instant was terrifying. 

“As could any darkspawn you might face in battle. You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.” There was no reassurance in his words, just fact.

“Let’s have it done,” Aedan’s voice was cold and devoid of emotion. The young man looked as if he had nothing to lose, and Ysabelle couldn’t help but reach out for his hand, though he never took his eyes off Duncan. 

\--

The night was cloudy and moonless, the only light illuminating the old chapel came from the pyres and torches spread throughout the ruins. It began to spot with rain as they made their way to the ritual site. 

“At last we come to the joining,” announced Duncan. He stood silhouetted against the ominous bulk of the Frostback, a chalice cupped in his hands. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation.” He regarded the assembled recruits, “So it was that the first wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

“We- we’re going to drink the blood of those creatures?” Jory had said very little since they had arrived back at camp, but now his eyes bulged with panic. 

“As the first grey wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory,” Duncan continued. Again, his words offered the recruits no comfort. Since their return from the Wilds it was as though he was distancing himself from them. 

“Those who survive the joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.” They had almost forgotten that Alistair was there until he spoke. He had been watching the proceedings in silence. 

“Those who survive?” she looked to Alistair, but he would not meet her eye. 

“Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed. This is why the joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.” Duncan’s word explained the secrecy, though Jory seemed to be growing more anxious, as though his choice to join the wardens had been a trick. 

“We speak only a few words prior to the joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?”

Alistair folded his hands solemnly, and looked down as though reciting a prayer.

_Join us brothers and sisters,_

_  
Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant,_

_Join us where we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn,_

_And should you perish know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten,_

_And that one day we shall join you._

Once the words had been spoken, Duncan turned to the assembled recruits. Amongst them only Aedan showed no signs of anxiety, waiting calmly for what was to come. Jory’s eyes were flicking between the chalice and his fellow recruits, avoiding Duncan’s gaze in the vain hope that he might be overlooked and not have to drink the tainted liquid.

“Step forward, Ysabelle.” Duncan intoned. 

Her heart was racing and her mouth became dry as she held out her shaking hands to receive the Joining chalice. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the other recruits watching her nervously. Even Alistair appeared on edge, taking in every movement as she raised the cup to her lips. 

The taste of the blood was overwhelming and utterly disgusting, but she forced herself to swallow the thick black liquid. It had barely touched her stomach before her throat felt as though it was closing up. 

Duncan reached out and caught the chalice before she could drop it. She tried to clutch at his hand as she bent double, letting out a shriek of pain. Voices were screaming in her head in languages she couldn’t understand, and darkness crept across her vision. It felt like her body was on fire, the pain searing from head to toe, as her chest began to tighten. She felt as though her skin was ready to fall away and leave her as nothing but bone. 

When her legs could no longer support her, she collapsed onto her hands and knees on the damp stone floor, one hand desperately clawing at her throat as she gasped for air. With a final whimper, her arms gave out and she crumpled to the ground. 

Duncan looked down sadly at the lifeless body upon the floor, “I’m sorry, Ysabelle.” 

Jory was backing swiftly away from the group. He did not stop until his back was against the chapel wall. Alistair’s heart sank. He knew the penalty for those recruits who learnt the secrets of the Joining but refused to take part. 

Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the recruit, “Step forward, Ser Jory.” The knight protested wildly, foolishly drawing his weapon to defend himself. “There is no turning back,” he continued to advance. Duncan was fast, more than a match for Jory, and he easily side-stepped the man’s swing, thrusting his own blade forward through the knight’s chest. Jory was dead in an instant. 

Aedan was rooted to the spot. He had not expected to be so afraid, but having seen the pain that poor Ysabelle had suffered, and witnessed the consequences of trying to leave, now his hands were sweating and his heart was racing. 

“The joining is not yet complete. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint. For the greater good.” Duncan’s eyes were weary, this would be another night that would haunt him, his last hopes for a new warden resting upon the youngest of those who had been put forward. Alistair watched with visible apprehension as Aedan drank from the chalice.

Insistent whispers filled Aedan’s ears and nausea swept his body. He was suddenly pitched into darkness and felt his body drop to the floor, falling into restless dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I know it was a long one for me. I hope you enjoyed getting to know our wardens a bit better.
> 
> Next chapter Aedan wakes from the Joining ritual and the army clashes with the hoard.
> 
> There might be a surprise as well.


	5. The Storm Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for the battle of Ostagar to begin. As the young Wardens rush to light the beacon, all does not go as planned.

Surrounded by the aftermath of the Joining, Duncan and Alistair stood in the old chapel. The rain was falling more heavily now, plastering their hair to their heads and running in rivulets down their necks. The rapidly diluting pool around Ser Jory was beginning to trickle away through the cracks in the stone pavers. They stared down at Aedan. The soft rise and fall of his chest offering a small amount of comfort in the face of the disappointing ritual. Duncan seemed content that at least one recruit had survived, but the deaths weighed heavily on Alistair. He understood Duncan’s reasons. He understood that Jory drew his weapon, and he knew too much, but it still felt horribly like the one harrowing he had attended during his templar training. He didn’t think an avoidable death would ever sit right with him. 

It would take time for Aedan to wake, so they set about moving the bodies of Jory and Ysabelle to a temporary resting place. The secretive nature of the Joining meant they were unable move them freely through the busy camp, so instead they decided an appropriate resting place would be the parapet set behind the chapel overlooking the ravine. It took both of Wardens to lift Ser Jory, he had been a large man and his armour made him awkward and have to carry. Alistair had been able to scoop up Ysabelle with little trouble. Though still in light armour, she had come unarmed to the Joining, as though she knew there was no point in fighting the inevitable. 

The fallen recruits were laid side-by-side, their arms folded neatly across their chests. Alistair fastened a small amulet about each of their necks. Known as Wardens’ Oaths, they would have been given to the recruits had they passed their Joining. The amulets were enchanted to improve the wearer’s constitution, hopefully keeping them safe in whatever battles they might face. Even though they would do the recruits no good in this world, he hoped that maybe the amulets might help them find their way to the Maker’s side. There was no sense in his keeping them at any rate, and it felt like an appropriate mark of respect. 

He returned to find Duncan deep in thought. He knew Duncan well enough to understand that any loss, whether recruit or blooded Warden, troubled him deeply, but it must be especially difficult when he knew the recruit’s family. Once it had been usual practice for the Wardens sent no word to family members, as joining was a commitment to leaving your old life behind, but Duncan had always made the effort to write to any next of kin to inform them of, but not explain, the loss and return personal items. Silently Alistair stood by Duncan as they waited for the newest Warden to awaken. 

\--

Images flashed before Aedan’s eyes. Darkspawn in unprecedented numbers moving through the darkness, underground maybe. There were things that looked like Hurlocks and Genlocks, like those he’d seen in the Wilds, but there were other shapes he didn’t recognise. The whispering was now interspersed with animalistic shrieks and cackles. Just as his vision was fading back to black, a huge creature reared out of the darkness. It looked like the dragons in the tales he’d read as a child, but twisted and disfigured. The creature turned to look directly at him, as though it could sense him watching it, and let out an ear shattering roar.

Aedan’s eyes burst open. He didn’t realise how enclosing the dreams had been until he opened his eyes and heart leapt with relief at seeing the open sky above him. Duncan and Alistair hovered nearby, apparently waiting for him to wake.

“Welcome,” Duncan smiled. He seemed decidedly less cold and distant than earlier that evening. 

Alistair seemed lost in thought, “Two more deaths. In my joining, only one of us died, but it was— horrible,” he muttered half to himself. “I’m glad at least one of you made it through,” he said as he helped him to his feet. 

“I can’t believe you killed Ser Jory.” Memories of the Joining were flooding back to him, and the sight of the knight sprawled upon the ground in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood had been one of the last things Aedan had seen before losing consciousness. 

Duncan hung his head as he explained that he had no choice in the matter. Eager to change the subject, Alistair pressed Aedan about dreams, admitting to terrible nightmares after his Joining. It was a relief to Aedan hearing this was something all Wardens went through, though he was not keen to find out that they would recur for some time to come. 

“Before I forget, there is one last part to your joining,” Alistair held out an amulet. The central stone appeared to be onyx, clasped within a silver setting. Staring deeply into the stone, it was possible to make out rune markings. “We take some of the blood from the Joining and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us— of those who didn’t make it this far.”

Seeing the pained look slide across Alistair’s features, Aedan looked around to realise that the bodies of his fellow recruits were gone. It stung more than he imagined to be denied a chance to say goodbye, like a sickening echo back to his last night in Highever. 

“Take some time,” Duncan could see the troubled look in his eyes. “When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

\--

Aedan felt like an intruder in the meeting between the king and his generals. He had walked into the midst of heated discussions between Cailan and Loghain, who appeared to be attempting to strong-arm the king into changing his mind on something.

“Enough, Loghain. My decision is final! I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault,” Cailan retorted. His usually amicable expression marred by irritation.

They had not become aware of Aedan’s presence until their particularly animated discussion had almost ploughed into him. He scurried out of the way, around a large table laden with maps of the area around Ostagar. The maps were strewn with pins, ink markings and even an angrily thrust dagger, which had been aimed straight at the heart of the ravine. 

Cailan appeared surprised but delighted at a chance to change the subject, “and this is the young lord from Highever I met earlier? I understand congratulations are in order.”

“I don’t feel that special, your majesty.” It had barely been ten minutes since he had woken. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Duncan while he spoke, his feeling on what had happened to his uncongratulated fellows were still raw in his memory. 

“Oh, but you are,” Cailan enthused, “every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever!”

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan,” the Teyrn’s frustrated glare flicked between Cailan and the Wardens. “We must attend to reality.”

Both men leant over the maps, moving pins to represent where troops would be stationed. Their strategy being that the hoard would be drawn forward toward the pass below Ostagar, where the men led by Cailan, the Wardens amongst them, would challenge the hoard head-on. Once the bulk of the darkspawn were past a certain point, the troops led by Loghain would flank the hoard, attacking from the rear and cutting off any means of retreat. 

“Yes, yes I remember now. Your men will charge once the beacon in the tower of Ishal has been lit.”

“Yes, your majesty. I have men stationed there already.”

“It may not be dangerous, but it is an important task and as such I think we should send Alistair and the new Grey Warden.” Cailan’s determination was unflinching in the face of Loghain’s scoffs. 

“If it’s not dangerous, your majesty, I could do it myself.” Aedan hoped that this sounded like a helpful solution to ease a tense situation, although in reality more than a little wounded pride drove his interjection. 

“No.” The response was instant, and seemed to take most of the assembled party by surprise. “It’s best that you both go.” Cailan’s words were firm, not angry, but they left no room for discussion. 

Duncan had tried to raise the possibility of the archdemon appearing, but the Teyrn had been unreceptive and the king had just smiled at him and pointed out that _‘wasn’t that what he was here for’_. When it was evident that their presence was no longer required, Duncan and Aedan had left them to continue their strategy discussions.

\--

The ruins were eerily empty now that all of its occupants had made their way into the valley below. The rain that had started to patter earlier that evening had developed into a torrential downpour that was accompanied by occasional rumbles as a violent thunderstorm pushed its way up from the south. The pitch black night sky was illuminated with increasing frequency by vivid flashes of lightning. 

They found Alistair stood by one of the now abandoned recruit camps looking solemnly at his feet. The Bann was huddled by the campfire for warmth while he patiently awaited his master. The young warden didn’t realise they had returned until Duncan laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I— I took some of their possessions over to where— I thought it would be easier when we decide what to send to their families and what should go with them—” Duncan squeezed his shoulder.

“Thank you, Alistair.”

Aedan couldn’t stop his mind drifting to thoughts of who would they tell if he died. He had no one but Fergus. Fergus who was Maker only knows where in the Wilds. For all he knew, he could be dead and then what? Would all his possessions be burnt with him? Who would look after the Bann if he were gone? He forced the fatalistic thoughts from his head and attempted to focus on the argument brewing between Alistair and Duncan. 

“What do you mean I won’t be in the battle?” Alistair looked genuinely angered at the thought of not being able to stand with his fellow wardens. “Why does he need two Grey Wardens to light a fire?”

“It’s not for us to question, Alistair. This was the king’s personal request.” 

“I agree with Alistair,” Aedan started. If there was going to be a battle, glorious or not, it seemed ridiculous that two people dedicated to slaying darkspawn would be side-lined as glorified messengers. 

“This is not your choice,” Duncan snapped, his look silencing them both. 

As the time for the battle drew near, the more concerned he grew. The tensions between the king and the Teyrn worried him. The last thing an army needs before a battle of such import is to have the two leaders it relies upon openly arguing over their priorities. 

He would have preferred to have some Wardens stationed with Loghain’s men as well, but his suggestion that this would give them a better idea of the location of the darkspawn forces had been rebutted, and Cailan had been more than happy with the idea of a Warden vanguard at the head of his forces. 

In truth, he was glad that the two wardens who stood before him would be away from the battlefield. He wasn’t happy to risk the lives of all his wardens in an assault before the archdemon had shown itself. It would be a tragedy for Ferelden if they lost everything here before the war had really begun. 

“I get it. I get it. Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“You have some odd ideas about the king,” Aedan couldn’t help laughing. A splutter of amusement in the face of everything yet to come.

“I happen to be quite fetching in a dress,” Alistair returned. Apparently, Aedan wasn’t the only one giddy on nerves. 

“When you two have quite finished…” Duncan let out an audible sigh and rolled his eyes. “It won’t be long until the hoard is upon us.” The darkness he sensed spilling from the Wilds was close enough now that he could almost make out movement within the shadow. “You need to get to the top of the tower and light the beacon. I would say you have little more than an hour to get there and await the signal.”

“And afterwards,” Aedan broached the subject tentatively, “can we join the battle then?”

“You will stay in the tower,” Duncan would brook no argument, “If we need you, we will send for you. I must leave you now.”

“Maker be with you, Duncan.” The two wardens gripped each other by the forearm, giving a small node of mutual respect. 

“Maker be with us all.”

******

Rain drove into the faces of the assembled troops, sheets of lightning illuminating their numbers as they filled the ravine. The more experienced infantry men stood stock still, staring out into the dark forest ahead of them, waiting for a sign of their enemy. The newer recruits shuffled their feet and glanced around anxiously, as though checking they weren’t the only ones feeling apprehensive. The king’s hounds pawed the ground, eager for release, as archers tested their bows, and made sure their arrows were readily accessible. The front line of defence were the pike-men, who shifted and rolled their shoulders, looking for a comfortable way to rest their pikes upright as they waited. Winding through the troops, were a number of Chantry sisters, aromatic fragrances wafting from the censers they swung as they solemnly recited passages the Chant of Light. 

Cailan paced the length of his troops, radiating nervous energy. Duncan followed at his side. 

“The plan will work, your majesty,” Duncan called after the king, struggling to meet the young man’s energetic pace. 

“Of course, it will work.” Cailan stopped still and stared at Duncan. _It has to. Or all is lost._ “The Blight ends here!”

As they watched, a mist began to creep forward from the trees, bringing with it odours of damp and decay, that seeped into the bones filling the men with dread. Duncan could feel the whispers of the taint on the air. The mists were barely 200 yards out before the assembled army began to make out shapes. From the twisting vapour emerged the darkspawn. They crept from behind every tree, crawled up from the ground, seeming to multiply before their eyes until there stood thousands of them. The woods began to glow with the light of fell fires, lit by the hoard as they advanced through the Wilds. 

A little over 100 yards away the hoard stopped, jeering at the king’s army as they clashed sword on shield, letting out whoops and shrieks that were enough to curdle the blood of the most hardened warrior. Upon a rock stood a Hurlock, clad in heavy armour, black eyes peering out through the eye slits of a huge horned helmet. The terrible noises it emitted seemed to be stirring the hoard up into a frenzy.

The king’s army drew their weapons and nocked their arrows in response. There was no use in faint hearts now, and no time to run. They would destroy their enemy or die trying. The mabari howled and snarled, tugging at their leashes in readiness for the fight. 

With a terrible roar, the Hurlock general thrust its sword arm forward. The shrieking mass of creatures surged forward, the Genlocks and Hurlocks scrambling over each other fervour to each their foe. Looming from the forest emerged a number of hulking ogres, three times the size of a Hurlock with huge horns upon their heads, which they used like a battering ram. 

As soon as the charge began Cailan gave the order for the archers to fire. Volley after volley of flaming arrows shredding the hoard’s vanguard, but they continued their charge, they were barely slowed as they scrambled over the bodies of their dead without hesitation. At fifty yards Cailan called for the hounds to be released. The mabari surged forward from their positions within the king’s army, meeting the monsters head on without fear, ripping into the leaders of the advance. 

As soon as the dogs were loosed, the pike-men lowered their weapons and waited as the hoard neared. At twenty yards they could see their gaping mouths and hear their individual war cries. At ten yards they could see into their inky black eyes. The darkspawn plunged onto the pikes, undeterred. Even deeply embedded upon them, the creatures continued to swing their weapons and shriek right up to the point of death. 

With the hoard finally slowed and pushing at their defences, Cailan cried for the infantry to charge.

“For Ferelden!”

******

Far above the battle Aedan and Alistair were traversing the ancient bridge to reach the eastern side of the ruins. They had little opportunity to pay the battle any heed, as their attention was focussed on dodging the massive flaming projectiles being aimed at the bridge and surrounding structures by the monstrous ogres on the valley floor. Just moments after they crossed the bridge into the cover of the eastern ruins, the statue adorning the centre of the bridge was swiftly decapitated by one such missile. 

As they made for the ramp toward the tower, a panicked mage barrelled into them. Clutching at Aedan’s armour he spluttered, “The tower— it’s been taken!” He stumbled back as the Bann growled and pressed himself between the stranger and his master. 

“It’s ok, boy,” Aedan tugged the mabari back to heel.

“What do you mean, it’s been taken?” Alistair sounded unusually authoritative, standing tall in front of the cowering mage. 

“It’s been overrun by darkspawn!”

“Aedan, we have to hurry!” He turned back to the mage and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Will you help us, master mage?”

After a moment’s thought, determination replaced the panic on the mage’s face. “Yes. Follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

\--

Clusters of darkspawn were attacking the guards in the tower’s exterior courtyard. The Wardens charged to their aid, Alistair’s mastery of the taint enabling him to call out the locations of darkspawn archers his compatriots might have otherwise struggled to see. Aedan was impressed. As yet he didn’t seem to have developed Alistair’s talent for sensing the creatures. This must be something Wardens developed the longer they were exposed to the taint. It did mean that they would have to rely on Alistair’s abilities to guide them through the tower in relative safety. 

The main chamber upon entering the tower was laden with traps. It couldn’t be possible that the darkspawn had only just taken the tower, they must have been here well before the start of the battle. Aedan couldn’t help but wonder if they had been there even when he arrived at Ostagar that morning. Could Loghain’s men have already been lying dead within the structure, ignorant guards stood outside guarding the gates when all the while the tainted creatures crept throughout the tower. 

A flaming arrow ignited a cluster of barrels beside them, sending the Wardens careering backwards. The Bann was already away, charging at full pelt towards the nearer monster, which he shredded with minimal effort. The mabari then turned to the advancing group of darkspawn and emitted a howl that could curdle blood. Taking advantage of the suddenly taken aback creatures, their circle mage companion sent a bout of flame toward the group, crumbling the nearest to ash and severely wounding the furthest of the pack. Hopping over the makeshift barriers, Aedan ducking left and Alistair charging right, they took down the remaining archers.

Once the last of the creatures was dead, they had a chance to properly examine the chamber. Evidence of the taint seemed to seep from the walls and crawled its way up pillars. Looking closer, they could see evidence of what had happened to Loghain’s men. Human remains were twisted within the barriers and pinned across the walls. This confirmed it. The darkspawn must have taken the tower hours before. Aedan averted his gaze as he choked back the bile in his throat, sincerely praying that the men had been dead when this was done.

As they hurried up flight upon flight of stairs, Alistair called back to Aedan, “Maker’s breath! What are they doing ahead of the hoard? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place?” Aedan snorted. 

“Right. Clearly, this was a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh later.”

The mage gave the pair of them an incredulous look, “I think maybe we should hurry.” Evidently, he wasn’t the sort with a macabre sense of humour. The group continued their passage up the tower, nerves fraught as they anticipated further darkspawn attacks.

\--

As they climbed higher, the darkspawn attacks became more sporadic. Did they dare hope that they had seen the worst of them, or perhaps they had been drawn down to the lower levels to assault the Wardens when they had first entered. The upper levels of the tower appeared to have suffered a lot of damage, whether this was historical battles fought ages previously or an effect of the darkspawn was hard to determine as even here the taint was beginning to affect the building. They raced through the dark hallways, Alistair fretting the whole way about the amount of time it had taken them to get this far. 

“We must reach the beacon. The king is depending on us!” he repeated each time the pace slowed. 

Upon reaching the final flight of stairs, they saw that the door jams were splintered and doors were thrown clean from their hinges. Strange noises were coming from within the beacon chamber, but the urgency of their task drove them on, paying little heed to the potential danger that lay ahead. 

It was only upon entering the chamber that the group saw the huge hulking creature within the centre of the floor. Suddenly it was clear why there was so much damage to the corridors and doors throughout the tower. How else would an ogre make its way up here. The beast had been crouched over, eating something that looked horribly like it had once been human, but on hearing their footsteps it lumbered around, pulling itself up to its full height. 

Aedan had never seen anything that big in his life. It was easily three times the size of a grown man. Its enormous battered horns looked easily capable of goring any one of them to death. The creature opened its mouth in a snarl, blood and saliva dripped from its huge gnarled teeth. Its eyes narrowed as it focussed in on the shocked party, lowering its head to charge. 

The party scattered, barely escaping the path of the charging beast, which had now lodged one of its horns in the wall behind them. Aedan had dragged the mage with him as he dived out of the way. Almost as soon as the ogre was past them, the Bann was on its heels, sinking his teeth deep into one of the creature’s massive ankles. It kicked him away viciously as it tried to free itself, sending the hound skittering across the stone floor with a yelp. 

Aedan lashed out, sinking his sword into the beast’s leg. Finally free, the ogre snarled and batted him away before turning on the terrified mage, reaching out an enormous clawed hand to grab at him. His shock was only momentary, before he spent most his mana scorching the skin from the creature’s left hand. It withdrew with a deafening bellow that reverberated around the chamber, causing dust to cascade from the roof.

While his companions cowered and shielded their ears from the roar, Alistair took advantage of the Ogre’s distraction and threw himself onto its back. Taking hold of a horn to steady himself, he drove his sword home up through the base of the creature’s skull. Black blood seeped down its back and over Alistair’s arm as he shook his sword loose from bone, before leaping gracefully from its back. By the time the beast had fallen forward to the floor, the light had left its eyes. 

“Quickly! We must have missed the signal. Light the beacon now!” he called. The mage hurried forward issuing another bout of flame set the beacon alight. 

******

Flames billowed from the top of the tower and down in the ravine the soldiers cheered in reply. Relief swept over the battlefield, renewing the energy of those left standing. It wouldn’t be long now before Loghain’s men charged the rear of the hoard. 

Cailan fought valiantly amongst his men. They had suffered great losses. They had signalled for the beacon long ago, and he had truly begun to fear what might be happening in the tower that could cause there to be no response. His relief at the beacon’s being lit was fleeting. Instead of their signal being answered by the sounding of horns and the charge of their own men, more and more darkspawn seemed to be spilling from the Wilds. 

On he fought, side-by-side with Duncan, as more allies fell around them. They were easily outnumbered five to one, and there was no sign of Loghain. He had no way of knowing if they had been waylaid or set upon by numbers of darkspawn they had been unaware of, but in his heart, he felt betrayal. All the arguments, the thinly veiled hatred of the Wardens, the attempts to keep him away from the front. Loghain had never intended to charge. Reinforcements were not coming. He had always meant to leave them here to die, even if it killed his own countrymen. Rage and fear drove Cailan’s swings as he felled creature upon creature. The waves of darkspawn were never ending. This would be the death of him. 

A creeping sensation overtook Duncan despite the heat of battle. It was like a heavy shadow settling itself upon his back, whispering in his ear. He turned too late to call out to the king. The monstrous claws of the ogre gripping tightly around the young man’s chest and plucking him from the ground. He could see Cailan desperately gasping for breath, unable to wriggle free or swing his sword. The beast roared in his face before tightening its grip with a sickening crunch. 

As the excruciating pain overwhelmed him, Cailan’s last thoughts ricocheted wildly between his dear Anora and the desperate fear of what would befall his beloved country. The last thoughts to grip him, before the darkness took him, were of the sandy-haired young man currently fighting for his life at the top of the Tower of Ishal. 

******

Darkspawn were flooding the top of the tower. The mage who had accompanied them had already fallen, ripped apart as soon as the creatures grew close enough to get past his spells. Alistair, Aedan and the Bann drew closer together, desperately deflecting the advancing monsters, but in doing so they were being pushed back toward the wall, their escape routes cut off. 

Aedan was the first to fall, arrows from an unseen archer shredding his sword arm, shoulder and, to Alistair’s horror, a final arrow struck him in the throat. Terrible memories of a clifftop less than two months ago flooded Alistair’s mind. Another fight like this where he had watched another warden fight for his life before being felled by such an injury. Aedan collapsed to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head as he lost consciousness. The darkspawn were unable to take advantage of Aedan’s weakened state as, with an almighty howl, the Bann charged towards the opportunistic creatures. It was too little too late as a fresh surge of darkspawn overwhelmed Alistair. A shield strike to his head knocked him to the ground beside Aedan. The Bann continued to snap and snarl in circles around them in desperate attempts to keep the monsters at bay. 

As his vision faded black and unconsciousness overtook him, Alistair felt a strange sensation, like the very tower itself was shaking. It was almost as though something enormous had settled above them.

******

The fight had long been lost as the first light of dawn crept into the sky. The red hues of the sky spreading like a perverse parody of the carnage that lay below. High upon a parapet amongst the dead, someone stirred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This one was quite a bit shorter than last time but I hope you enjoyed the battle. 
> 
> Next time Aedan and Alistair find themselves in the Wilds again, and there is an awakening in Ostagar.


	6. A New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedan and Alistair find themselves deep in the Korcari Wilds following the disastrous battle at Ostagar. 
> 
> Ysabelle finally wakes from the Joining ritual to find herself in Ostagar. But she isn't exactly alone.

The dawn light pushed its way through the cloud layer. The storms from the night before were dispersing, taking with them the tension that had lain across the land, leaving an air of stillness to settle across the Wilds. Sunlight glinted off the puddles left by the previous night’s wild weather, enveloping Ostagar in a pinkish red aura. 

The ruins lay silent, but far below in the valley was a different story. Terrible noises drifted on the air giving hints as to the abominations being perpetrated by the remaining darkspawn. Lupine eyes looked out across the battlefield from well within the treeline, taking in the terrible scene with keen interest. The lone wolf knew not linger too long before turning tail and heading deep into the Wilds. 

******

Nightmare felt like too small a word. The visions felt visceral, prophetic even. The darkness was like nothing she’d ever known before, and buried deep within it were noises—whoops and howls and shrieks—echoed by thousands of fell voices filling chambers and passages, reverberating around her as though she were underground. Oppressive claustrophobia overwhelmed her, the paralytic nature of the nightmare denied her even the smallest attempt at movement. Trapped within the darkness for what seemed like an age, the environment began to change as a subtle bioluminescent glow highlighted the walls, revealing low tunnels all around, some so small that you would have to crawl on your belly to pass through them. 

Suddenly the world was moving, like she was being dragged by unseen hands, but at incredible speed. Always the darkness was snapping at her heals, wanting to wrap her back in its terrible embrace. Within it writhed horrifying shadows, twisting and reaching out, but never quite drawing close enough to grasp her. An orange glow began to radiate ahead of her, so alien in the darkness that it stung her eyes. Rivulets of lava bordered the path; the heat give off by them felt so real it could have scorched her skin. 

When she finally stopped moving, she found herself stood in a massive cavern by a yawning crevasse yielding a view deep into the ground. Far below her were tens of thousands of creatures, fire burning around them, and though logically she shouldn’t have been able to tell, she could see their faces were lit with an eerie glow. Now she understood. These darkspawn were the shadows that had stalked the passages and haunted her journey. Despite being able to _see_ each creature now, the shadows as she’d seen them within the dark remained around them, calling out to her with the strangest sensation. Was this how the taint _felt_? 

Strong gusts of wind whirled throughout the cavern, whipping her hair about her face, each gust accompanying a beating sound, as though made by impossibly large wings. Erupting from the depths of the crevasse burst a dragon; its beauty corrupted, its features twisted. It landed heavily right in front of her, making it feel as though the whole world was shaking and the cavern would collapse in around them. She felt whispers envelope her as she lost herself in its eyes. After a moment’s appraisal the creature let out a deafening roar, purple flames erupting from its mouth. 

That was the last part of the dream Ysabelle remembered. She lay stock-still, eyes squeezed tightly shut, trembling and unsure of where she was. Gradually her senses began to return. The ground was hard and cold beneath her, stone maybe, worn and old. Her armour was saturated, the leather heavy and cold against her skin. Dull aches radiated throughout her body. Her back throbbed from being on the ground for who knows how long. Her throat felt raw, like it had been burnt by scolding tea. _The Joining._ It was coming back to her. She remembered being in the chapel, drinking the tainted liquid, and after that there was nothing but pain before the dreams overtook her. She screwed her eyes tighter and tried to move her shoulders. Her body was so stiff. 

The whispers had faded from her mind but weren’t entirely gone. She waited for them to pass but they persisted. The hairs on the back of her neck continued to stand to attention. It was as though something was behind her, and all her senses were telling her to run. It felt like the shadows in her nightmare, and no matter how tightly she screwed her eyelids shut, they wouldn’t disappear. This was impossible, she was lay on the ground after all, so how could things be moving behind her. 

She slowly became aware of the smell on the air. Smell wasn’t the right word. Stench would be more appropriate. The air was laden with death and corruption. As she became more aware of her environment, she began to hear noises in the distance. Movement far below, the occasional clank of metal and a quickly cut off scream. That wasn’t the voice of a creature, it was a human voice filled with fear and pain.

Instinctively she turned her head toward the sound and opened her eyes. Then it was she who had to stifle a scream of her own. 

******

Deep within the Korcari Wilds Alistair sat staring despondently into the waters of a small lake, occasionally skimming a stone across its mirky depths. He had woken a couple of hours earlier on the floor of a ramshackle hut, his head throbbing like something had tried to split it in half. The familiar faces of two women had coolly appraised him as he’d blearily scanned the room. The apostates from the Wilds? 

When he asked what had happened, the young woman they’d met the day before had told him in excruciating detail what was happening to the remains of his comrades upon the battlefield. He had stumbled out of the cottage and emptied his guts upon the ground. It had taken him a few moments more to remember his last movements.

“Where is Aedan?” Alistair burst back into the hut. Panic washed over him. He couldn’t think straight. Everyone from his new life, everyone who had been on that battlefield was dead.

This time it was the mother who spoke, “Calm yourself, lad. The boy is in the other room. We saw to his wounds but he hasn’t stirred.”

“What? Will he be alright?” He pushed past the women into the tiny room that housed Aedan. 

“Do I look like a seer?” she snorted, “have a little patience. Time will tell.”

With that, the women left him with the comatose Warden. Despite there only being a year between them, Alistair thought how young Aedan looked as he lay there. He was badly bruised at the sites where the arrows had punctured him but the wounds were no longer open, in fact it looked as though they would barely leave a scar. 

For hours he sat by that bed with nobody but the hound for company. Together they watched the shallow rise and fall of Aedan’s chest, hoping desperately for some sign of improvement. When he could no longer stand the silence of the room he had made his way back out of the cottage, avoiding contact with his strange hosts as he blinked back tears. 

\--

Aedan’s head was throbbing. He opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings. He was lay in a bed, not comfortable like home, but still better than the camp at Ostagar. _Ostagar._ How had he ended up here? 

As he pushed himself upright he realised he was not alone. On the opposite side of the room, flicking through an old leather-bound volume was the woman they had met in the Wilds before the battle. She turned, as though sensing his eyes on her. 

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased,” her voice was as cool as he remembered it. 

“I remember you: the girl from the Wilds.” _But what was her name?_ It felt like his brain had been scrambled, and the longer he was awake, the more of his body seemed radiate dull aches. 

“I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. And we are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds.” She viewed him appraisingly, making Aedan acutely aware of his state of undress beneath the blankets. He was not ordinarily a shy young man, but on this occasion he felt at somewhat of a disadvantage. “You are welcome, by the way,” Morrigan continued, “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“Wait… what happened to the army? To the king?” He could remember nothing after lighting the beacon but the instinctual knot in his gut told him that they couldn’t have ended up here without something having gone very wrong. 

“The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle,” her words were blunt and she continued to observe him as though he were an object for study rather than a fellow human being. “Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend… he is not taking it well.”

For the second time in under a month, the bottom had fallen out of Aedan’s world. He was in freefall, not knowing what was happening, not understanding how it got to this point. It took him a while to register her last words. 

“My friend? You mean Alistair?” _Please let it be Alistair. Please don’t let me be alone._

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes,” she was evidently less than impressed with his fellow Warden, “He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

“Thank you for helping me, Morrigan.” 

Aedan reached out for the pile of his clothing that sat upon a small table by the bed. The worse of the blood stains had been washed from the armour, but judging by the damage left, it must be little less than a miracle that he had woken at all. 

“I— you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.” She seemed startled by his gratitude, as though a simple thank you was not something she was accustomed to receiving. 

“Can you tell me, were my injuries severe?”

“They were. But it was nothing mother could not fix.”

“And Alistair? Was he hurt?”

She raised an eyebrow again as her aloof nature returned, “He is fine, but behaving childishly if you ask my opinion.” She had obviously taken note of the anger crossing his features, as she added, “Was that cruel of me?”

“We have just lost everyone we know and care about. Yes. Yes, it was.”

“Then I apologise,” though the hint of a shrug and an eyeroll contradicted her statement. 

Aedan dragged on his breaches and smock; the young woman barely turning away from the spectacle. He winced as he tried to lean forward to buckle the guards over his boots, his shoulder stiff from where the arrows had struck it. To his surprise, with a huff Morrigan bent down and began to impatiently fasten the buckles. 

As she finished helping him attach his chest plate he finally worked up the nerve to press her for more answers. 

“Are we safe here?” He hated how weak the question sounded, but here they were, in the middle of Wilds that just a day earlier she had described as darkspawn filled. How could they not run into the hoard out here? 

Pulling the shoulder straps tight enough to make him wince, she replied without so much as a glance at his face, “For now. Mother’s magic keeps us hidden here, but once you leave— well that is a different matter.”

She handed him his sword and shield and headed toward the door, “Come. Mother wishes to speak with you.”

******

Ysabelle screwed her eyes tightly shut again, but it was as though the image was burnt onto her retinas. Dead cloudy eyes set deep within a bloated, discoloured face staring back at her. She rolled onto her back again and tried to control her breathing. Something here was very wrong and she needed to keep her wits about her. 

She dared to slowly open her eyes. This time she was staring straight up into a lightly overcast sky, reddish pink light dancing across the bottom of the clouds. In her peripheral vision she could make out old stonework. _So, I’m still at Ostagar._ The Joining had been at night though, so how long had she been asleep? There were none of the usual sounds coming from the camp. Could the battle be over? 

Not daring to look to her right, she unfolded her arms and pushed herself into a sitting position. This wasn’t far from where they had performed the ritual but why was she left on the cold, wet floor? Why were most of her belongings stowed in a pack to her left? And, worst of all, why was there a body here? A tentative glance to her right revealed that her unsettling companion was in fact Ser Jory, though he did not entirely resemble himself any more. She scrambled away from the corpse quickly, dragging her possessions with her, and sat with her back against the parapet, regarding her former fellow recruit from a distance. 

_“Oh shit. Do they think I’m dead?”_ she groaned under her breath. Why else would she have been dumped with a corpse? The ruins were so quiet she couldn’t help wondering if she was in fact dead, and this was the non-Andrastian hellscape that little heathens like herself ended up in.

Rummaging in her pack she found her dual sword belt, hastily clasped it around her waist, and slid her blades into the scabbards. The symmetrical weight tugging at her hips was comforting, like she’d been missing a piece of herself but now was whole again. Her armour was damaged from fighting the darkspawn in the Wilds, an entire shoulder guard eaten away at by acid, but there was no time to change. She slung her pack onto her back and, with one last look at Jory, she crept back through the old chapel. 

The great pyres set throughout camp had burnt to the ground, leaving smouldering mounds of wet ash. Canvas fluttered in the ever-present breeze that whistled around Ostagar. The camp was like a ghost town. From her position at the top of the ramp in the old chapel she couldn’t see another living soul in the king’s camp. 

_Something was wrong._

She slipped across the courtyard and up the ramp by the abandoned quartermaster’s station, to where the gaol had been. Even the prisoner was missing. As she drew nearer she could see that blood pooled within the cage and was smeared upon the bars. 

_Something was very wrong._

She sensed the creature before she saw it. Every hair on the backs of her arms felt like it was standing on end, as an icy sensation crept up her neck. She had barely ducked out of sight behind the guard tent when the Hurlock came shambling past, sniffing the air as it went. _Oh, I hope it can’t feel me too._

It was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. Ysabelle listened to its receding footsteps fading to the west. From out in the army camp she heard a sudden chattering, and despite the walls surrounding the king’s camp, she could see shadowy movement throughout the site. It was like a sixth sense was vying for her attention. The more she focussed, the more she could make out shapes within the shadows; there were Hurlocks and Genlocks out there, maybe a dozen of them. It was just like the sensations in her nightmare. Was this what Alistair had meant when he said Wardens could sense the darkspawn? Did the Joining link them to those horrible creatures? The noise coming from the camp crescendoed. There was no time for paranoia, she had to move now. 

Her blood ran like ice in her veins as she stole silently back down the ramp and towards the bridge crossing to the eastern ruins. If the creatures had made their way up from the valley bottom, but weren’t filling the camp yet, then perhaps she could make it to the imperial highway in relative safety. She would just have to travel as carefully as possible. _Now_ , she told herself, _don’t think about what is behind you._

******

“See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.” It was Morrigan’s mother who spoke, but it wasn’t Aedan she was addressing. 

Alistair spun round, his face pale and drawn, and his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, his mouth seemed to be trying to form words but they would not come. Had he really been so badly injured that Alistair had worried for his life? It took the Bann barging past Alistair to reach his master, to finally shake the words free. 

“You… you’re alive! I thought you were dead for sure.” The words tumbled from Alistair’s mouth, relief briefly finding its way to his face. 

“It takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me.” Aedan attempted his most reassuring smile, but the throbbing throughout his body reminded him that the darkspawn had had a damn good try. He crouched to rub the mabari behind the ear, though stood again quickly before the hound could drown him in kisses. 

“Duncan’s dead. The Grey Wardens, even the king… They’re all dead,” Alistair seemed unfocussed, lost, but Aedan understood. He understood the pain of losing everything. “This doesn’t seem real. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower.”

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad.” Her harsh words seemed to snap Alistair back to reality. 

“I didn’t mean…” he stuttered, “but what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

The woman smiled knowingly, “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

The young Wardens exchanged shocked glances before Alistair managed, “The Flemeth from the legends?” You’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth had the same appraising, feline smile as her daughter, and evidently the same love of word games, “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you well, has it not?”

“We can’t be safe here. Where are all the darkspawn?” Aedan interrupted. After all, Morrigan had said that it was her mother’s magic that was keeping them hidden, but how did that even work? And how would they get out of these Maker forsaken Wilds?

“The largest part of the horde has moved on. We are safe enough for now—old Flemeth knows a thing or two about hiding.” She offered no explanation as she regarded the two young Wardens. “The longer you are here, the less that is true, however. These things will notice you eventually.” 

******

Ysabelle crept out on to the bridge that spanned the deep ravine, keeping close to the rear wall. The first gust of wind rising up from the valley brought the smell. She dropped to her knees, hands clamped over her nose and mouth as she wretched. The second gust brought the sounds. The combined senses painted a grisly picture. Despite knowing in her heart what was happening far below, unbidden her feet carried her to the southern edge of the bridge, where the previous night’s battle had destroyed the side walls. She stared down into the abyss, unprepared for the horrors she would see. 

On the battlefield below was a feeding frenzy. The ground was stained red with blood. She was mercifully far away enough to not be able to make out details, but her new found sense was a curse. She could feel every creature on that battlefield. There were still hundreds of them. They were scrambling between massive piles of what must be human remains, howling to each other whenever they found something of interest. The most sickening thing of all was that the loudest whoops were almost inevitably followed by a distinctly human scream, followed by this new region of the field being swarmed by darkspawn. 

She stumbled back away from the edge, unable to retain what was left of her stomach contents. _They’re all dead._ She choked back terrified sobs as tears trickled down her cheeks. _If I don’t get out of here, those things are going to eat me!_

Ysabelle threw caution to the wind and ran, desperate to put as much distance between herself and these horrors as possible. With hindsight this was a foolish thing to do. Her footsteps echoed around the deserted ruins but it was too late to worry now what might have heard her.

As she clattered off the eastern end of the bridge, a Hurlock stepped out in front of her, wielding a makeshift great sword. It swung the jagged, tainted metal at her with such force that she had to throw herself to the ground to avoid being hit. She rolled onto her back just in time to see the chopping action coming straight down at her. Rolling away, she yelped as the blade ripped at her plait, tugging her head back violently. As she scrambled to her feet, she could see that the sword had roughly hacked through the braid that had once hung all the way down her back, shortening it to somewhere around her shoulder blades. 

Her now loose hair fell across her face as she drew her swords and circled the snarling darkspawn. _I may be shaken and weak, but this is just one monster._ She could deal with one. The creature leant back, raising its sword high above its head, its mouth gaping wide. Before it had a chance to loose a cry that might have alerted the whole hoard to their position, Ysabelle lunged forward, skewering her blade through the creature’s throat. The Hurlock toppled back, carried by the weight of its great sword, life having left its eyes before it struck the floor. 

Ysabelle had only had time to sheath one sword before a scream she barely recognised as her own burst from her lips. The pain was excruciating. She hadn’t even realised the other Hurlock was there until it had wrenched her head to the side and sunk its teeth into her left shoulder. As she struggled to free herself, its teeth only sank in deeper, ripping at her skin as blood flowed from her neck and shoulder. Any attempt to move just tore at the muscle further, but if she did nothing she would bleed to death… if she was lucky. 

The feeling of the creature’s tongue on the wound was the final straw. Fighting through the pain as muscle tissue shredded on her shoulder, she took her unsheathed sword in both hands, pointed it towards herself, and using her side as a steadying point, she thrust it up into the Hurlock’s chest with all the strength she could muster. As the creature dropped back, she turned and fell upon it, using her body weight to force the sword through armour and into the creature’s heart. 

Crawling away, she scanned the courtyard for further darkspawn before sheathing her other sword. The fight didn’t seem to have drawn any unwanted attention, but this was no time to linger. She couldn’t get a good view of the wound on her shoulder, but it was still bleeding badly and would require attention. Ysabelle rifled through her pack and found a washcloth. _This would do._ She used it to pack the wound and secured it tightly in place with a belt. It was a painful fix, but still being able to feel her shoulder was a good thing. 

She ran out on to the Imperial highway, and didn’t stop until her legs could no longer carry her.

******

“So, you want us to leave?” Aedan was unsure whether to be annoyed or panicked at the thought of being cast out into the woods with no way of knowing how long it would take for the hoard to catch up to them. 

Flemeth threw her head back and laughed. “All that I wish you to do is what you are meant to do. It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight,” her gaze passed between the young men, who stood gawping at her, “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“It changed when most of them were slaughtered,” Aedan retorted. The witch did not care for their wellbeing, she just wanted her home protected. 

“If you think small numbers make you helpless, you are already defeated.”

“But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn! The king had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?” Anger looked out of place on Alistair’s ordinarily genial features. 

“Now _that_ is a good question,” turning away from them she gazed out across the lake, as though lost in old memories, “Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature.”

After a moment she refocussed on her audience, “Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can out-manoeuvre. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.” This statement she focussed upon Alistair.

“The archdemon,” he responded. His face deadly serious.

“What is this archdemon, exactly?” Aedan was beginning to feel lost as the flow of events began to run away from him. 

“It is said that, long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface,” Flemeth explained, “an archdemon is an Old God awakened and tainted by darkspawn. Believe that or not, history says it’s a fearsome and immortal thing. And only fools ignore history.”

“Then we need to find this archdemon?”

“By ourselves?” Alistair looked at him like he was insane. “No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the army of a half-dozen nations at his back! Not to mention, I don’t know how…”

“How to kill the archdemon, or how to raise an army?” That wicked smile was playing on Flemeth’s lips again, loaded with knowledge she had no intention of sharing. “It seems to me those are two different questions, hmm? Have the Wardens no allies these days?”

“I— I don’t know. Duncan said that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called. And Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely.”

“Arl Eamon? The Arl of Redcliffe?” Aedan queried. 

“I suppose— Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan’s uncle.” The idea was obviously growing on Alistair, “I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!” 

Aedan’s brow furrowed, confused as he wondered how Alistair could possibly know the Arl. “Keep in mind that Loghain was also an honourable man.”

“The Arl would never do what Teyrn Loghain did. I know him too well.” Alistair was obviously taken aback by his friend’s implication. “I still don’t know if Arl Eamon’s help would be enough. He can’t defeat the darkspawn horde by himself!”

“We need the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“I don’t know how to contact them, or if they’re even on their way. We need to do something now!”

Flemeth had been watching discussion with her trademark air of vague amusement, waiting until their planning began to fail before she interjected, “You have more at your disposal than you think…”

Realisation dawned on Alistair’s face, “Of course! The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages and other places. They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!”

“I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else… this sounds like an army to me.” There was an edge of mocking to her voice, but this was the first solid plan they had arrived at since awaking in the Wilds so the young men chose to ignore the undertone. 

“So, can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and— build an army?” Alistair was looking straight at Aedan. It was the first time he’d seen hope in his eyes since he had awakened. 

“I doubt it will be as easy as that,” despite his words, Aedan couldn’t help but smile to himself. It was good to have purpose again. 

“It’s always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to stand against a Blight. And right now, we’re the Grey Wardens.”

******

The fever was setting in and Ysabelle hadn’t slept in the two days that had passed since she’d escaped Ostagar. The wound on her shoulder was still slowly seeping blood, and was beginning to fester. She felt like a ghost of her former self. 

As she trudged up the highway, careful to remain within the shadows of its side walls, she sang to herself to keep her mind occupied. She hummed lullabies she used to sing to the bairns back home. She crooned sea shanties that she’d learnt from the sailors around the Denerim docks. She sang the epic heroic tales that she’d learnt from the merchants who travelled with her father when she was little. 

None of them brought her any comfort, but if she let her mind settle into silence for so much as a moment she was flooded with memories of what had been lost at Ostagar. She’d sung these songs on her way there. She’d laughed with Domnall about them and now… now he was gone. Each time this hit her she crumbled into a ball there on the side of the road, her body convulsing with silent sobs, eyes raw from the tears that soaked her cheeks. 

The fever was worsening the further north she travelled. By the time she’d reached the lowlands near the West road she was hallucinating. She saw darkspawn in every shadow, heard the voices of people she’d lost, and chatter between Alistair and Aedan, too far away to make out words but she knew their voices and longed to find them. But worst of all was Jory. If she ever dared look back over her shoulder, he was there. His cold, dead eyes staring out of discoloured features, just like that moment when she had first opened her eyes on the cold chapel floor. _Why can’t you just haunt me as the boring bastard I went into the Wilds with? I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!_ She’d even found herself shouting at him once while alone on the moors. 

She wasn’t sure she’d make it to a healer in time before the sickness over took her. Lothering was her only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> And thank you so much to GreyWardenCousland, whose comments are basically 100% behind me managing to write this chapter in such a short space of time! <3
> 
> I may not be able to update again until the New Year, but I promise not to leave it too long into January. 
> 
> Next chapter:  
> Will Ysabelle make it to Lothering in time and will our Wardens be reunited?   
> Also we'll meet some new faces in Lothering.


	7. An Unexpected Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden party arrives at Lothering and Morrigan makes a startling discovery.

Anora stood silent at her father’s side looking out across a sea of faces, their accompanying voices echoed around the throne room. The landsmeet had been called so quickly she had barely had time to take in the news of her husband’s death. Her father had wanted to tell her himself, but he had seemed cold and distant, scrutinising her reaction, that she barely felt justified in allowing so much as a quiver to enter her voice. He had told her there was much to be done, and without any explanation as to how Cailan had died—other than to lay blame at the feet of the Wardens—he had set about calling the assembly before which they now stood. 

News of the defeat at Ostagar had reached the majority of Ferelden’s nobility long before Loghain had made it back to Denerim. Despite there being a good number of nobles who distrusted the Grey Wardens enough to unquestioningly believe the news of their betrayal, there was unrest in the bannorn. Anora could pick mutinous faces out amongst the group, staring at her father with defiance rather than the deference his past deeds had earned him. While he continued to address the crowd, she took the time to evaluate their reactions. It was a serviceable distraction to keep her grief at bay. 

“—And I expect each of you to supply these men,” Loghain raised his voice so it carried across the assembly, “We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly. There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them. We must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation.” 

She could see her father’s fist clench, she knew that beneath his gauntlets his knuckles would be white. He was talking about Orlais again. Everything always led back to Orlais. Before her death, her mother had confided how thoughts of their neighbouring country still kept him awake at night. Anora knew in her heart that her father was only trying to do what was best for their home, and she shared his frustration that there were those who did not understand that, though she was far better at hiding this. A voice from the crowd drew the attention of both the queen and her father. 

“Your lordship, if I might speak.” It was Bann Teagan Guerrin, brother of the Arl of Redcliffe, who addressed him. Unlike the majority of his peers, Teagan was dressed in armour. The reddish hue of the veridium picking up the red of his hair, and accentuating his rapidly flaring temper. “You have declared yourself Queen Anora’s regent, and claimed we must unite under your banner for our own good. But what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most… fortuitous.” 

His last words hung in the air between them, the landsmeet stunned that the words, which had hitherto been but whispers, had been given a voice. The silence was only temporary before arguments erupted all around the hall, the noise from the crowd rising to an almost deafening level. It was near impossible to decipher who amongst them agreed with the Bann and who stood fast with Loghain. Anora could see her father’s temper was rising, and she knew instinctively what he would view as the best course of action: stamp out any hint of rebellion, before dealing with what darkspawn were left in the south. 

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence! I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!” Loghain roared across the startled assembly.

“The bannorn will not bow to you, simply because you demand it!” Teagan raised his voice in return.

“Understand this, I will brook no threat to this nation from you or anyone.” The Teyrn leant forward over the balcony and snarled at Teagan, before turning on his heel and storming from the hall.

“Bann Teagan, please,” Anora finally spoke. She knew full well that though Teagan had only spent time at Denerim’s court under duress, his connections made his opposition formidable. She would have to do all she could to soothe the situation. 

Teagan’s features softened at the approach of his nephew’s widow, but not entirely. He bowed dutifully to his queen. “Your majesty, your father risks civil war. If Eamon were here…” 

“Bann Teagan, my father is doing what is best.” Anora implored, but she could tell she had chosen her words poorly, for the Bann’s featured hardened again in an instant. 

As he turned to leave, Teagan shot back over his shoulder, “Did he also do what was best for your _husband_ , your majesty?”

******

It had been four days since the young Wardens had left Flemeth’s hut. Along with some meagre supplies they had gained an additional party member, although the decision had been a controversial one. As they had been about to depart, Morrigan emerged from the hut to announce supper, and much to their surprise, and especially Morrigan’s, Flemeth had declared that her daughter must join them. There had been no arguing with her, despite Alistair’s concerns about Morrigan’s apostate status. All this had done was elicit a murderous look from Flemeth and a threat to put him back on the tower where she found him. 

Though Morrigan’s attitude towards her mother had been venomous, she never refused the duty that Flemeth thrust upon her. She’d even smiled when Aedan had said for her to speak her mind and that they appreciated her help. This had not lasted long, as Alistair had foolishly asked her about her cooking abilities. Aedan had gawped at him for an age, wondering how he would cope as the sole surviving Grey Warden, before he’d managed to engage his mouth and assure Morrigan that she did not have to cook for them.

It had been her suggestion that they make their way to Lothering. It was a large village situated where the imperial highway met the west road, a perfect trading post and a good spot to gather news. 

\--

“We aren’t far,” Morrigan had told them, but that felt like hours ago. 

Apart from the occasional spat, Aedan’s companions had been depressingly quiet for the majority of their journey. Morrigan led the way, taking them far enough east that they hadn’t had a single run-in with darkspawn as they left the Wilds. Alistair had been concerned about the time this would add to their journey, a concern which Morrigan had taken offense to, and from the moment on she had jibed at him whenever the opportunity had presented itself. 

The one time her conversation hadn’t been malicious, she had asked about the fate of their companions from the Wilds. Even if she hadn’t meant it as such, it had been a painful reminder of how much had changed since their arrival at Ostagar, and how alone they now were. A sad shake of Aedan’s head, and a mutinous glare from Alistair had been enough to silence her on the subject. 

Between Alistair’s moody silences and Morrigan’s spite, Aedan was feeling too worn down to maintain a conversation, let alone mediate their bickering. He walked ahead up the imperial highway with the Bann at his side, leaving his companions to trail after him, far enough apart that they didn’t feel obliged to converse. 

As the highway rounded a corner they could see Lothering, tucked away in a valley that lay alongside the road, its Chantry standing out over the village from its position part way up the valley’s slope. 

One last obstacle lay between them and their destination. 

“Wake up, gentleman! More travellers to attend to.” A broad dark smile spread across the face of the leader of a dubious group of men. The man locked eyes with Aedan, pointing him out to his comrades. “I’d guess that fellow is the leader.” 

There were eight of them in total, watching the party with suspicion. The one nearest the leader was the first to speak, turning his head in an attempt to block the conversation from their ears. “They don’t look much like them others, you know.” He glanced back at them, his suspicion in no way alleviated. “Maybe we should just let these ones pass…”

If it was possible, the leader’s smile seemed to widen further, “Nonsense! Greetings, travellers!” 

Alistair rolled his eyes, “Highwaymen. Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.” He was a shadow of the man Aedan had met at Ostagar. He hadn’t seen a smile touch his lips since the brief glimmer of one when Aedan had woken in the Wilds. 

“They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan muttered, her eyes scanning the assembled men for weaknesses, “I say teach them a lesson.” 

“Now is that any way to greet someone?’ the leader tutted, “A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.” 

Aedan had had enough. All he wanted was a chance to rest and to maybe eat something that wasn’t Alistair’s charred rabbit. He drew himself up to his full height and glared at the smug bandit, “You should listen to your friend. We’re not refugees.”

Another quick discussion between bandits yielded no change in opinion. The leader shrugged indifferently, the smile never leaving his face. “You still need to pay.” 

“Forget it. I’m not paying.”

“Well I can’t say I’m pleased to hear that,” the leader sighed, “we have rules you know.” 

“Do you really want to fight a Grey Warden?”

A strange look passed between the bandits as they re-evaluated the party in front of them. There was a whisper amongst the group that sounded like _“oh Maker, not another”._ A couple of men toward the back of the group edged away, but their leader’s bravado seemed irrepressible.

“Traitors to Ferelden, I hear. Teyrn Loghain put quite a bounty on any who are found.” 

This was too much for Aedan and Alistair, who drew their weapons and advanced quickly, catching the leader off guard. Aedan’s shield smacking into the man’s face was enough to finally remove that smug smile. 

An arrow whistled past his ear, but in the time it took him to spot the archer, the man and a number of his compatriots had been frozen solid. Morrigan stood behind him, staff at the ready as she regarded the rest of the assembled thugs, her eyes daring them to attack. Lightning crackled from her fingertips towards an advancing bandit, a laugh escaped her lips as the man hit the ground, convulsing. 

Alistair raised his shield to deflect the blow of a great sword, though the manoeuvre was successful he jarred his shoulder severely in the process. Unable to raise his shield as his attacker swung again, Alistair lashed out with his foot, catching the man in the stomach and causing him to topple over the parapet of the raised highway. 

Aedan was attempting to fend off the two remaining bandits when a cry came from the floor behind him. 

“All right! We surrender!” The bandit leader lay pressed to the ground, the Bann’s muzzle practically touching his nose. The man looked closer to tears with every growl that rumbled from the mabari’s throat. “We were just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!”

“You picked the wrong target,” Aedan snarled, making sure the remaining bandits dropped their weapons before stepping toward their leader. 

“Yes! Yes! Of—of course! We should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry.” 

“I want some questions answered.” The bandit nodded desperately. “Have you heard about any survivors from the battle?”

“Couple, maybe.” The man wouldn’t meet Aedan’s eye, his voice dropping to a mutter. “A group of wounded ash warriors came by earlier… got right out of their way.” 

“And?” he insisted.

“Another one of your lot,” the man finally admitted. Alistair and Aedan exchanged shocked glances as the leader continued, “Barely had a chance to introduce ourselves before the bitch had her sword at my throat.”

Alistair moved swiftly to crouch in front of the prone bandit, grabbing him by the collar and pulling the man up so that his face was just inches in front of his own. He ignored the painful thunk in his shoulder as he did so. “Then what?”

“She was covered in blood,” spluttered one of the other remaining bandits. The Wardens’ heads snapped round to look at him, “Kept muttering something about Wardens and darkspawn… looked crazy, like she couldn’t keep her head straight. But, Maker, was she fast with those blades…”

“So, you don’t _know_ that she was a Warden.” Disappointment and anger flashed in his eyes, as Alistair looked between the bandits.

“There was enough of that black blood on her, that if she weren’t one of you lot, she’d definitely have been dead before now,” the leader interjected, desperate to distract the Wardens enough that they might leave him and his remaining companions alone. “That was two days maybe? She headed into the village, like everyone does. I—I don’t know where she went after that.”

\--

They sent the remaining bandits running for their lives, the Bann snapping at their heels for a time as the dashed east along the highway. It was more mercy than they deserved. They had also learnt that lies were filtering across the land, lies that claimed the Wardens had led the king to his death and that they were traitors to Ferelden. As if the task ahead of them wasn’t going to be hard enough, now there was this. 

Aedan looked over the bodies of the bandits and those who had previously resisted them. Amongst their number was a templar. He crouched down by the body to check the unfortunate man’s pack to see if he could find anything that might inform them who he was. A quick search yielded a note addressed to a Ser Donnell and a well-worn locket containing a tiny painting of a woman. With this they could at least inform the local Chantry of his fate.

The fields surrounding the village were filled with makeshift tents, carts and crowds of despondent people, milling about without purpose. They were a mixture of walking wounded and those who had fled their homes with nothing but the clothes on their back. Children’s cries, complaints and arguments drifted on the breeze towards them. Here were the first civilian casualties of the Blight. 

“Pretty as a painting,” Alistair muttered under his breath, casting his eyes over the sea of tents and over toward the village itself. 

“You’ve finally decided to re-join us, have you?” Morrigan scoffed, “falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

“Is my being upset so hard to understand?” He looked genuinely taken aback by the surprise onslaught. “Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

But there was no making her understand, “Before or after I stopped laughing?”

Before he had a chance to respond, Aedan rested a hand on his shoulder, “You have been very quiet, Alistair.”

“Yes, I know. I was just… thinking,” he began, before Morrigan cut him off. 

“No wonder it took so long, then.” 

She was being particularly merciless, more relentless than she had for much of their journey to Lothering. Her shoulders were visibly tense and though her main focus appeared to be on enjoying Alistair’s reaction to her berating him, Aedan could see she was keeping an eye on their surroundings. Perhaps the pressure of being hunted by soldiers as well as darkspawn was not going unnoticed. 

“Oh, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover how you’ve never had a friend your entire life!” Alistair snapped back at her. 

“I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Enough!” Aedan rounded on his companions, his temper finally got the better of him. “We are going into that village. We are going to eat. We are going to rest. We are going to get supplies. And if we don’t have anything productive to say, then we are going to keep our mouths shut!”

The others stared at him in stunned silence. If his mother could have seen him now, she would have found the irony hilarious. _Everything is going from bad to worse, mum. You’d have known exactly what to do_. 

They descended the ramp from the imperial highway and followed the path through the field of tents, suspicious eyes peering out at them from beneath canvas and behind hastily laden carts. The entrance itself was half-heartedly guarded by a lone templar, who tried in vain to dissuade them from entering the overfull village. He offered them little in the way of information other than advising they speak with Ser Bryant, the leader of the local templars, or Elder Miriam, who could be found tending to the sick and wounded to the west of the village. 

Just outside the Chantry’s walls a merchant was in the middle of an altercation with a Chantry sister. Alistair and Aedan exchanged glances.

“Should we do something?”

“Are we to solve every petty squabble in the village? My but the darkspawn will be impressed,” Morrigan sneered, “I admit we need supplies, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting in the middle of that. Go do your good deeds. I’ll be on the other side of the river, seeing if I can get any information from the Elder.” She turned and stalked away across the narrow bridge spanning the shallow river which bisected the village. 

\--

Morrigan was glad to be away from them, at least for a short while. It was more tiring than she had imagined, being around people for any great length of time. Despite having met them before, she had still expected more from being in the company of the fabled Grey Wardens. These _boys_ knew nothing of what was happening and seemed to have barely a plan. By this point even hearing that idiot breathe was enough to set her on edge. And as for the other one, even she couldn’t bring herself to be mean to the lad. He just looked so sad whenever he thought no one was looking. How could she be expected to help these two save the world?

Her boots clacked on the cobbled bridge as she scanned the west side of the village. It wasn’t a large area, but there were two refugee camps crammed in between barns and outbuildings. There was the tavern, which could be another useful source of information if they couldn’t learn much from the village Elder. 

After asking around as to where she might find the Elder, she was pointed toward the camp on the left. As Morrigan neared it, an elderly woman called out to her.

“You got a bed for the night? You taken care of?” she could barely speak three words without coughing and spluttering, no doubt from illnesses bourn by the refugees she was tending to. 

“What?” Morrigan caught off guard, not anticipating any offer of hospitality from this stranger. 

“Lothering’s full up with refugees,” the woman wheezed, “Might be space in Allison’s barn. Speak up.”

“I’m not a refugee,” Morrigan stopped her, “Actually, I was looking for information”.

The woman gave her the kind of appraising look that she’d seen her mother give fools who stumbled upon them Wilds. “I might be able to help you, but first, I don’t suppose you know anything of tonics, medicines, or herbs?”

_Ah, so she isn’t solely the harmless old do-gooder she might want to appear_. “As it happens, I do.”

“Then you may be able to do us a lot of good.” Elder Miriam smiled approvingly, “All manner of travellers come through, many injured or sick. We do our best, but we’re out of supplies.” Her eyes darted to one of the tents and then back to Morrigan, “There’s medicinal herbs in the woods to the north. If you make a few poultices, I’ll scrape together some sort of payment.” 

“This won’t take me long, but afterwards I need any information you can give me on what has been happening.”

“The world went to the void after Ostagar, girl. What else could you need to know?”

“I need to know how badly.”

\--

“It’s so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis,” Alistair called out as they sauntered towards the bickering pair, “Warms the heart.” 

Both the sister and the merchant started to argue their case at once, doing their best to talk over the other. Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. This whole day was beginning to give him a migraine. 

“Let me get this straight,” Aedan sighed, addressing the merchant, “Your profiteering is ruffling some feathers?”

“He’s benefiting from the suffering of the refugees! Half his stock was theirs just last week!” The sister was determined to get her point across. 

“That fool woman wants me to just give it all away. I need to survive as well, you know!” the merchant chimed in.

And so the argument went in circles for some twenty minutes. One party attempting to appeal to his good religious nature, the other offering him silver to be rid of the rival. Eventually Aedan managed to calm them enough to reach a compromise: the merchant would still charge for his stocks, but not the prices he had before, and the sister would leave him to it. The only downside was Aedan had had to agree to paying extortionate prices himself as recompense for costing the merchant valuable profits. 

At least they had managed to sell some old gear and stock up on food. Now they just had to find Morrigan.

 

\--

When Morrigan returned to Elder Miriam, multiple poultices tucked neatly under her arm, she found the woman at the entrance to the tent she had glanced towards earlier. Morrigan managed to get a good look over the woman’s shoulder before she’d so much as registered she was there. 

“Oh! You’re back.”

“I said it would not take long.” Morrigan continued to look around the woman, who was now trying to block her view into the tent. She had had enough of the evasive woman. “What are you hiding?” she snapped. 

“Look, I don’t believe what they’re saying. She’s no deserter. No traitor. You don’t get in that stage by running away!”

Morrigan pushed the canvas aside and stooped into the tent. There was a single occupant, lying so still you could barely see her chest move. Her hair was black with blood, a mixture of her own and what Morrigan had come to recognise as that of darkspawn. A gaping wound on her left shoulder seemed to have only recent stopped bleeding, but it was obviously infected. She could practically feel the heat of the fever rising off the woman. Around her neck she wore an unusual amulet of onyx clasped in silver, the deep etchings seem almost fluid. There was magic there, but Morrigan wasn’t sure what kind. The battered leather armour she was clad in looked familiar, the right shoulder guard burnt away, revealing the light scarring of a magical burn. It couldn’t be. She turned the woman’s face to get a proper look, pushing blood-matted hair out of the way. 

“So, you’re the other warden,” she muttered half to herself, her eyebrows rising. 

“I’ll not have you handing her over to anyone!” Morrigan had been so surprised to see the tent’s resident that she had forgotten the Elder was still with her. 

“I’ve no intention of doing so,” she snapped, “How long has she been like this? How did she get here?”

“I’ve not been able to rouse her since she arrived, what, two days ago? One of the lads from a farm on the outskirts brought her to me.” Concern etched its way across the Elder’s face. “Health potions aren’t bringing her round.”

“Of course, they aren’t.” Morrigan rolled her eyes before continuing, “Now, fetch me water and clean cloths. I can wake her, but I need you to get out and to make sure I am not disturbed.”

Elder Miriam regarded her intensely for a moment before giving a swift nod and ducking out of the tent.

Once Morrigan was situated with the water she had requested, she set to work on Ysabelle. Having cut away the armour around the wound she began cleaning it thoroughly. It concerned her that this did not create a reaction in her patient, for the process of removing debris and cleaning pus from the wound should be very painful. Maybe it was for the best, a light fire spell would be able to cauterise the wound, and then hopefully the basic healing spells she had learnt from her mother should have a better chance of working to bring her round. 

Morrigan was not squeamish by nature but this was an ugly injury, a bite maybe, and the damage that must have been done during the struggle was enough to make even her stomach consider flipping. She ignored the churning in her belly and placed her hand on the wound, concentrating hard to keep the fire spell under control as she felt the heat flow from her fingertips. Once the wound had stopped oozing, she allowed frost to envelope her hand and used it to soothe the scalded skin. 

A blue glow filled the tent, light seeping out under the canvas, as the healing spell swirled around Ysabelle. Her skin gently knitting back together under Morrigan’s studious gaze. It would scar, but she would live. 

“You’re going to start drawing attention…” the hoarse whisper came through the canvas.

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes, “Just bring me more water, would you?”

She set about cleaning the blood from Ysabelle’s face, and with the renewed water source she gently washed the blood from her hair, slowly revealing its copper hues. By the time she was done, the tent was strewn with bloody rags, and as she rang out the last of them, she found that Ysabelle’s eyes were open and she was watching her. 

“You’re Morrigan, aren’t you?” She looked confused. “We’re not in the Wilds, are we?”

“No,” Morrigan smiled, “we’re in Lothering, near the Hinterlands. You were very sick. ‘Tis a miracle you’re not dead”

“Now that I remember.” Ysabelle winced as she pushed herself into a sitting position, trying with dismay to adjust her armour into a less revealing position. “Well, this has seen better days!”

“Your amulet is unusual.” The curious stone hung around her neck. Morrigan could feel the gentle hum of magic coming from it.

“Wha—oh!” Her hand instinctively clasped the pendant, though she was obviously confused by its presence, “I—I don’t know where this came from.”

“Hmm, if I’m not mistaken there is healing magic in that stone. It could have saved your life. Well… not as much as I did, of course.”

“Thank you, Morrigan,” Izzy laughed, “you seem to end up healing me every time we meet!”

Izzy scanned the tent, as though suddenly realising she was missing something. Her relief was visible when she laid her hands on her treasured swords, which had been neatly tucked by the rest of her belongings.

“Can I ask where you were?” Morrigan enquired, as her patient dragged her pack closer and began to rummage through it.

A haunted look engulfed her and she took a moment to answer, “Ostagar. And now I’m here. I’d rather leave out the details for now… if you don’t mind?”

“Very well.” Morrigan had seen the aftermath of the battle. She could all too easily imagine what Ysabelle had seen without having to press her for details. So instead she set about helping the other woman out of her ruined armour and into some fresh clothes. 

“What brought you here, Morrigan?” she asked, as she wriggled into a pair of leather breeches, and dragged her boots up over her knees. “Did you have to flee the Wilds?”

“Actually, I’m travelling with some people who would be very glad to see you,” she answered, helping Ysabelle get her injured arm through the sleeve of a fitted linen tunic. The sudden hope on her face was almost enough to thaw even Morrigan’s hard heart. 

\--

Alistair and Aedan stood by Dane’s Refuge, discussing what the best course of action might be. An odd sensation was jostling for attention at the back of Alistair’s mind, but he put it down to his still developing migraine. It was the Bann who spotted Morrigan first, as she emerged from a tent in the refugee camp. He gave a soft buff to draw their attention, though they barely glanced around. 

“I have found something that you misplaced.” 

There was a tinge of amusement in Morrigan’s voice which usually accompanied her being particularly rude to him, so Alistair chose to ignore her. He had barely had a chance to register the look of shock on his friend’s face before a familiar voice spoke behind him. 

“You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together...”

The voice was small, not as full as laughter as it had once been, but it was one he’d never thought to hear again. Before he’d so much as turned, Aedan had darted past him and scooped the woman up in a hug. She looked so frail and exhausted.

“Easy, Cousland!” she half winced, half laughed, her voice muffled from her face being buried in Aedan’s chest, “I left part of my shoulder in a Hurlock, I’ll have you know.”

It was like looking at a ghost, a tiny piece of the past they had lost come back to life. He daren’t reach out and touch her in case she was a mirage, sent to taunt him as his dreams had begun to at night. 

As he neared, Alistair could see the ugly wound on her shoulder, freshly healed by Morrigan he had no doubt, which would explain why she looked so smug despite the touching scene, which would usually make her scoff. 

He could hear Aedan muttering things like, _we thought you were dead, where were you?, what happened?_ , into her hair. He’d lost so much and it was good to see any kind of relief on his face. Alistair realised the only reason he’d not seen how badly Ysabelle was shaking, was because of how tightly Aedan was holding her. Now he could hear the broken sobs escaping her throat as she failed to answer Aedan’s questions. 

And still he couldn’t bring himself to touch her for fear she’d disappear.

He stood and stared in disbelief for a moment longer before he felt fingers clasp tightly onto his sleeve. She’d reached out, flailing desperate to catch hold of him, as if she too were afraid that if she didn’t act he would disappear. He took her hand, wrapping it in both his own. It was so pale against his golden-brown skin, he could practically see blue veins through translucent skin. She watched him, red-eyed from her spot cradled within Aedan’s arms, a fleeting tired smile crossed her lips as their eyes met. 

There were three of them. It might not seem like much, but it was one more than when he’d woken up that morning, and that gave him hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I've been a bit blocked on this chapter which is why its taken a little longer to do.
> 
> Since it's Christmas I've given you a happy chapter ending for a change :) We'll see how long this lasts. 
> 
> Next chapter: The Wardens clash with Loghain's men in Lothering's tavern, and they make some unexpected allies. 
> 
> Happy Holidays xx


	8. The Soldiers and the Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysabelle has been reunited with Alistair and Aedan, all thanks to Morrigan working some healing magic. Before they have a chance to come to terms with all that has happened to them since the fateful events of the Joining, they run into some trouble in Lothering's tavern and receive some unlikely aid.

She could hear Aedan’s heart beating beneath his armour, see Alistair through her sore, misty eyes, but it wasn’t just that. When she closed her eyes she could feel them. Almost like the swirling sea of darkness around her at Ostagar. But different. The darkspawn were shadows, dark vortexes, sucking light and joy and life out of the area around them. Conspicuous to her senses for the void they left. The Wardens, her Wardens, shone. They glowed like starlight through cloud-cover, a soft reassuring presence that let you know there was still light in the darkness. 

It was this, more than the questions from Aedan, or the shock in Alistair’s eyes, that brought her to tears. She didn’t realise how incredibly alone she had felt until she saw them again. Her hand had grabbed Alistair unbidden, desperate to reassure herself they were both real, and not another hideous hallucination, the thought of which sent a cold shiver down her spine. She scanned her surroundings swiftly, waiting for any of the horrors she had endured on her journey north to re-emerge from the shadows of her broken mind. Nothing yet. If she was lucky they had broken along with the fever. 

She allowed Aedan to cradle her tighter, unconcerned by the metal of his armour pressing against her uncomfortably, watching as Alistair wrapped warm hands around hers. For the first time since before the Joining it didn’t feel like the world was falling out from under her, a slight smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

“Well, as touching as this is… don’t we have things to attend to?”

Morrigan stood, arms folded, a slight sneer indicating her impatience with the reunion she had instigated. If it had been anyone but the woman who had saved her life, she would have bitten her head off, instead she turned her gaze to Morrigan but remained with her reunited Wardens, not ready to relinquish the connection that made her feel grounded for the first time since leaving the Wilds. Aedan obediently relinquished his grip of her, but she could see the anger in Alistair’s eyes as he glared at Morrigan. Evidently their trip to Lothering had not been without its own difficulties. 

“So, does anybody want to tell me what is going on?”

“Ostagar… we lost.”

“That much I gathered.” _Breathe._ None but Morrigan noticed the glazed look in her eyes at Aedan’s mention of the fortress that would haunt her dreams for years to come. 

“It was Loghain. He abandoned them. He abandoned them all.” 

The anger that had previously restricted itself to Alistair’s eyes had grown, a seething hatred for the man who had destroyed everything he held dear boiled in his words. Seemingly unknown to him, his tender hold on her hand tightened to a vice-like grip as he spoke. It took Ysabelle pulling her hand loose for him to realise what he was doing, the anger instantly melted into regret. 

She flashed Alistair a hint of a smile, a feeble attempt at letting him know, she knew it was unintentional. She probably could have done more to reassure him, but for someone who had just woken up, the events of the last week were beginning to catch up with her and exhaustion was setting in. 

“Is there a tavern around here?” Ysabelle glanced around the village, really taking in the somewhat dilapidated buildings and the crowds of refugees for the first time as she absentmindedly massaged her crushed hand. “Maybe we could continue this somewhere more comfortable? With food?” 

A conspicuously loud rumble from her stomach confirmed the urgency of her plan, and the addition of a bashful smile raised some smiles amongst her companions. 

—————————

Dane’s Refuge lay a short walk across Lothering’s western square. Even with the doors closed, the air around the tavern was loud with conversation drifting from an interior which was likely full to bursting with locals and refugees alike. The creak of the heavy oak door made unnoticed entry into the establishment impossible, but their arrival didn’t seem to draw much more than a couple of glances, at first at least. 

It was almost unbearably hot within the tavern, despite the warmth of the day outside and the press of people within, there was still a fire burning in the large stone hearth. All the tables had been filled by huddles of people, and there was barely space to move for all those standing around the tavern’s main room. 

They barely had time to scan the room for a spot to peacefully settle themselves, a pointless endeavour given the volume of people within the Rest, before a group of eight armoured men stood up and pushed their way through the throng towards them. From their ruddy complexions and build these were coast men, but north or south?

Ysabelle noticed them before the rest of her party, all her muscles tensing in unison as they made their way forward, a cold sweat beginning to soak her neck. It wasn’t like it was the first time she’d had to face down gangs, back in Denerim running into groups like this was almost a daily occurence, but she was shaken. Still not whole from her ordeal. She wasn’t alone, but maybe that was the problem, she’d only just found sanctuary amongst people she cared about just moments before, and now these people threatened that. Her eyes hastily combed the room for further threats. If the worst came to it, at least their route to the door wasn’t blocked. 

In her intense focus on the approaching soldiers, she hadn’t even noticed Alistair appear at her right shoulder until he muttered in her ear, “Hmmm. These look like Loghain’s men. Ready yourself, I don’t think they’re here to congratulate us on our miraculous survival”. 

His hand hovered at the hilt of his longsword as he watched them approach. At her other side, Aedan followed suit. Her heart was racing now, with every step that drew them closer, but running would be folly, fighting maybe more so. She reached out, her hands with a mix of nerves and adrenaline, as she gave a barely perceptible motion to still Alistair’s movement. 

_Focus. The safest way out of this is to not start a fight. They’re just men. They have motivations, and they can be manipulated. You can get yourself out of this. You’ve done it a thousand times._

“Lets not get ahead of ourselves, boys,” she whispered, steading her breathing as she forced the tension to melt from her shoulders and relief to flood her face. “There’s no reason we can’t charm our way out of this.” 

“Look what we have here, men.” The largest of them, tip of the arrowhead of armed men, sneered at Alistair and Aedan. The crowds who had previously filled the Refuge, melting away leaving dead space around the two groups. “I think we’ve just been blessed.” 

_Gwaren. Alistair was right._

A brutish man to his right, stood silent through his commander’s speech, dark eyes staring out from a face so craggy and weather-beaten he could have been hewn from the coastal cliffs surrounding Ferelden’s southern-most port city. Those eyes ranged over the features of Alistair and Aedan, taking in details as though marking off an internal checklist. Not only were these Loghain’s men, but they were obviously looking for the two known missing Grey Wardens. She could feel Aedan beginning to shift uncomfortably under the appraisal, but she could only hope that he would keep his cool long enough for her to weave her honeyed words. So far the soldiers had paid her little heed, yet she still found herself struggling to prevent her hands slipping to the swords at her side. 

_Do not make yourself a threat._

As the men began to spread out, forming a rough semi-circle moving slowly around the group, she took her own time to appraise their aggressors. There were a couple of greatsword wielders in their number, including to stone faced giant, _generally slow and easy to avoid, so long as you kept an eye on that swing._ But for the most part they were sword and shield men, _faster than their compatriots, but what those shields block, they also obscure. If it comes to it, this is doable._

The brute finally nodded something of a confirmation to the group’s leader, who returned a small nod of acknowledgement, the sneer growing crueler at this wordless exchange. 

“Gents.” His eyes travelling from Alistair to Aedan and back, wicked smile never leaving his face. Only the briefest glance down at the rumbling growl from the Bann showed his awareness of anything other than the two men in front of him. “You might be just the men we’re looking for.”

This must be how the whales of the Amaranthine sea felt when they saw those same smiles looking out at them from a Gwaren ship’s prow. 

Time to do what so little prey has the ability to do. Lie. Lies were what she knew best, keener than any swordsmanship, more deceptive than any stealth. Honeyed words were what had kept her alive all these years. They were where she felt safest, where she had control, and so, with a final taming of her nerves, she lied. 

“Please can you help us, Ser?” She hurried forward to stand in front of their leader, imperceptible changes in posture and expression suddenly making her benign, unthreatening, a doe-eyed and pleading creature, with a voice holding a Lothering lilt that hadn’t been there seconds before. An old but reliable tactic that took her fellow Wardens aback, but brought a hint of a smile to Morrigan’s lips. _Heavy plate. Slow to move but solid. Gauntlets maybe._

“My brothers tried to defend our farmstead, but those things…” She let a small sob creep into her voice, turning her gaze on the brute at his side, staring into those stony eyes as she placed a hand upon his arm. _Lighter._ “They burned everything! Are you here to help us?” _No gorget. Fool._

They loomed over her, exchanging the kind of glances she could read like a book, as they assessed whether she was worth the effort. On each occasion she’d met with looks like these in her old life, the men in question had left with more than just wounded pride. Life in the back alleys of Denerim had raised her far tougher than she looked. But on this occasion she mustn’t have been worth the bother.

The commander shook his head and turned away, leaving only the giant of a man and his disinterested sneer. 

“We are here on the Regent’s business. No time for personal matters. Away with you.”

Just at the moment when he looked like he would turn and walk away, another figure appeared at her side. A Chantry woman, bright red hair softly cupping her cheeks, a delicate braid in her hair was the only ornate hint to her appearance, and a genteel smile gracing her lips.

Her voice was lyrical, Orlesian most likely. But it was not her accent, but her words that doomed them, be it her intention or not. 

“Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble,” she cooed, drawing back the attention of the retreating men. Attention that had been so close to being lost. “These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.”

The low growl rumbling from a place by Ysabelle’s hip was the final nail in their coffin. _The dog. The damn dog. She should have thought. No mere farmer would have a mabari._

In the time it had taken her to look down to the Bann and back, the soldiers who had been walking away, were again facing them. This time they were taking in the party as a whole. Weapons, armour, everything, not just to faces they were searching for. Her honeyed words went up in flames as anger settled across those ruddy faces, and weapons began to be drawn. The commander’s smirk had turned into a snarl; one he directed straight towards the interfering Orlesian. 

“They’re more than that, aren’t they?” His voice a low resonating growl, as he turned his advance on Ysabelle, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the stupidity that had fooled him into believing her in the first place, and though he gestured his men towards Aedan and Alistair with a great sweep of his arm, his glare never left her face. “Take them. Kill the Sister and anyone else who gets in the way. I’ll take care of her.”

“You can’t have them.”

The warmth that had inhabited Izzy’s face dropped like a stone. Her eyes icy cold. Her lips drawn in a tight line. 

Too swiftly for the foolish man to comprehend that he may have bitten off more than he could chew, she kicked out, high, and with a strength and accuracy that took the surrounding soldiers by surprise. Their leader was sent careering back over a table, struggling to right himself as he fought the weight of his own armour. 

At the sound of the scrape of metal on metal and the rush of air near her face, she ducked just as the brute’s greatsword swept through the spot where her head had been. In a fluid movement she drew a razor sharp dagger from the back of her sword belt, moving fast as her assailant steadied himself following the attack, his balance prepared for his blade meeting flesh, not thin air. She leapt, kicking off a tumbling stool and onto the table she had sent their commander flying over, and twisting, she plunged the hastily drawn dagger into the giant of a man’s unguarded neck. Before he had so much as a chance to draw his sword back to swing again, blood gushed from the vicious wound and he dropped to the floor like a felled tree. 

It wasn’t the movement of her allies that drew her attention from the fight, but the sudden appearance of the Chantry Sister, knives slashing with startling finesse, which unsettled her for the second time in minutes, and proved her downfall. The shield hit her full in the stomach, knocking her backwards off the table, and into the path of one of the greatsword wielders. She hit the floor.

Wet ground beneath her. Red sky above. Crumbling tower and parapets. A greatsword held aloft in the hands of an unspeakable creature. She froze.

And then it did. _He_ did. 

The beams of the tavern ceiling were above her, and looming over her was a soldier with sword raised ready to rain down the death blow, suddenly turned to ice. 

With a sweep of red and black, leaving nought but the drifting of a single raven feather past Ysabelle’s face to show where she’d appeared from, Morrigan shattered the man in front of her with a ferocious swing of her staff. Her yellow eyes illuminated by the crackle of electricity that coarsed its way through another would-be assailant. The man had not hit the floor before Morrigan turned back to Ysabelle, her disinterest in her adversary strangely comforting to the shaken rogue. 

The few remaining men hadn’t faired well against the skilled strikes of her fellow Wardens, the Bann dragging down any attacker who attempted to flank them. When Morrigan pulled Izzy to her feet, there was only the commander left unscathed. In the time it had taken him to drag himself from the floor, all his men bar one had been slain. Now he bid a hasty retreat towards the village and to safety. 

The dagger left Izzy’s grasp as he reached the tavern door, slamming through the thick leather of his gauntleted hand, pinning it to the door. Still reeling from her fall, the throw was made on instinct, and even she was shocked that she’d made the shot, though none would know it to look at her, the cold expression forming over her features again as she picked her way through the parting crowd towards to the door. 

“All right, you’ve won! We surrender!” The man was cowering from her, pressed up against the door, held in place by his hand. There was more than a foot’s height difference between them, but he pulled away from her as though she were a dangerous animal. 

“Then I think we can all stop fighting now.” 

The other redhead appeared at her side once again, but pulled back a little as Izzy’s glare settled on her momentarily, silencing her before she could ‘help’ any further. 

Izzy tugged the dagger free from the man’s hand, drawing a whimper as he continued to cower. She pulled a small cloth from her pack and slowly began to wipe the blood from the blade. 

“You’ll take a message to Loghain.” 

He remained silent until her eyes flicked back up to his face, pausing her cleaning until he began to speak. “W--what do you want me to tell him?” 

She moved closer, her voice barely louder than a whisper, her mouth to his ear, speaking slowly and deliberately as she sheathed her dagger.

“Tell him that the war he’s fighting ended thirty years ago. Tell him that he needs to stop this madness before everything he fought to protect is lost. And tell him that the Grey Wardens know what really happened at Ostagar.”

Beads of sweat trickled down the commander’s forehead as he cradled his injured hand, nodding all the time she spoke, but not daring to move another muscle. The bravado that had previously laced his voice with arrogance was gone, his words now rang shrill and shaken, “I’ll tell him. Right away. Now.”

He made a move to open the door with his uninjured hand, but froze when he felt Ysabelle’s hand on his shoulder.

“One more thing, pet.” She smiled pleasantly, “Tell him to make provisions for Lothering’s refugees. The village is being evacuated. Now.”

“I’ll never make it to Denerim before them on foot!” he protested, desperately looking to his remaining ally for support. The other man remained with his back to the wall, wide eyed as he watched the exchange. 

“Then you best start running, friend.”

With that she dragged open the tavern door and the two men went tumbling out into the village square, before taking off running east, towards the Imperial Highway. 

She started at the large hand that suddenly rested on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” It was Alistair, worry in his eyes as he looked between the fleeing men and the small woman in front of him who had inspired such fear. 

She wasn’t ready to think about that now. Not ready to think what would have happened if Morrigan hadn’t have been there. Not ready to think about how that frozen moment had solidified itself into her merciless reaction toward the remaining soldiers. She avoided his eye and brushed his hand away, turning instead to face the silent mass of patrons who had watched the fight in shock.

“You all heard me.” Her voice echoed around the hushed room, amplifying the slight quaking to her words. “You’ve waited too long. Pack up your things now and get out. The darkspawn are coming!” 

\------------------------------------------------

The room had erupted with panicked voices all around them as the tavern’s inhabitants shoved their way past the now silent group, to bundle up their lives and run to any haven they thought might be safe. 

When only a few of the bar’s more stubborn patrons remained, the Sister finally spoke, her angelic appearance somewhat marred by the blood soaking through the golden sun symbol of the Chantry on her robes. “I apologise for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” 

“It’s all right. I was happy to save your life.” 

Aedan spoke. His words smooth and suave. So very different from the broken and frustrated man who had arrived at Ostagar barely more than a week ago. The charming smile on his lips was unfamiliar to his travelling companions. But to anyone who had known him in his previous life, this was the cocky young man who charmed the whole of Highever, talked his way out of and into plenty of mischief, and had never found a battle of words he could not win. 

Izzy raised an eyebrow. All the tension that had built within her during the fight dissipated, and amusement stole over her as she watched her young friend decide that now was a perfect opportunity to start flirting with the holy woman who almost got them killed. She glanced over to Morrigan who exchanged a smirk with her and came to stand closer. This might be an entertaining conversation after all. 

“Save my life? I assure you I can handle myself!” The Orlesian woman spluttered as she gave him a disgruntled look. This was evidently not the response she had anticipated. 

“So I see.” Ysabelle and Morrigan exchanged glances again, Alistair’s suspicion of the newcomer reminding them of his reaction towards Morrigan in the Wilds, though admittedly less openly hostile. “Where does a sister learn to fight like that?”

“I wasn’t born in the chantry, you know.” 

Izzy knew. The longer the woman talked, and the more time she had to look at her, she could read the way she moved, seeing glimpses of an old life beneath those robes and those delicate words. One far from the lifestyle she currently portrayed. 

“Many of us had more colourful lives before we joined.” The woman smiled around the group. “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering... or I was.” 

“I’m Aedan.” He gave a small bow and flashed a charming smile again, extending a hand toward their new acquaintance, which she ignored. “A pleasure.” 

Unperturbed, Aedan gave a small shrug before indicating to his companions. “My companions, Alistair, Ysabelle and Morrigan. And this is the Bann.”

The mabari gave a low buff, but soothed by the emergence of his master’s old habits, he padded forward to the stranger, giving her a friendly headbutt in the stomach, almost knocking the wind out of her in the process. 

“Those men said you’re Grey Wardens. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?” She paused for a moment, something of genuine sympathy touching her expression as she scratched the mabari behind the ears. “I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get... That’s why I’m coming along.”

Alistair, Ysabelle and Morrigan openly gawped at the woman. The last thing they expected on this fool’s errand of a mission was volunteers. This left Aedan, the king of attempted smooth talk, as the only one of them unruffled enough to continue the conversation. 

“Why so eager to come with me?” He folded his arms and gave her a cheeky grin, his rebuffed charm offensive turning into genial teasing as the woman in front of him battled internally with a desire to knock him off his pedestal, and the need to win her case for joining them. She took a deep breath and looked at them in almost apologetic earnestness. 

“The Maker told me to.” 

There was a startled pause as the group looked amongst each other, trying to assess if they had all just heard the same words leave the woman’s mouth. Morrigan failed to suppress a snort, leaving Izzy having to bite her lip to suppress a laugh. She was the first to speak, her intolerance of the Chantry potentially rivalling that of Morrigan’s.

“Right… I believe this is where I back away slowly.” She exchanged another disbelieving look with Morrigan. _This woman is clearly unstable._

“I--I know that sounds absolutely insane, but I swear it’s true! I had a dream… a vision!” Her sheepish voice pleading with her baffled audience. 

Izzy overheard Alistair mutter to himself, “More crazy? I thought we were all full up.”

She kicked him in the ankle, whispering, “I hope you’re not including me in that, Warden.”

To which he shot her a sideways glance, a barely repressed smirk tugging at his lips. “Weeell…”

“Please! Look at the people here.” 

Leliana focussed her argument on the one person who wasn’t looking at her like she was a fool. Aedan regarded her with something bordering on pity as she spoke of Lothering’s plight. Soft blue eyes imploring his piercing ones to listen to her pleas. “The Maker doesn’t want them to be lost to despair as this darkness and chaos spreads unchecked. You do the Maker’s work. Let me help you!”

“I need more than prayers, I’m afraid.” He regarded her silently for a moment. “But if you can fight the way you did just now, then maybe we could use a little more help.”

Leliana’s gratitude was practically palpable as the relief flooded her face. “Thank you! I will not let you down.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes as she held open the door to Dane’s Refuge for the rest of the party. “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Next chapter we have another new face to meet and then we'll be making our way West towards Redcliffe. 
> 
> I know this chapter has been a long time coming, and i'm sorry it has been such a long wait for any of you who are returning readers. Thank you so much for bearing with me while I had some serious block with this story. Hopefully it'll be flowing a bit better from now, but perhaps not quite as fast as before. I have done a selection of one shots in the meantime, and intend to keep up doing these as well.


	9. A Chance At Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka. Leaving Lothering
> 
> As the ever growing group make their way out of Lothering, they come across another potential ally against the Blight.

The fresh air was a blessing to Aedan’s sweat dampened skin, blowing away some of the darkness that had settled on the group within the cramped tavern.  His head pounded with the flurry of adrenalin brought on by the ambush.  So much for a chance at some respite, he lamented.  Now Loghain would know for sure that there were Wardens who’d survived Ostagar, and there was no way of knowing if Ysabelle’s words had bought them some breathing room, or doomed them to be hunted.  It was too late to worry about that now.   

In a bustle of panicked movement, the makeshift tents were already being pulled down in the camp across from Dane’s Refuge.  Fear permeated the air, even more strongly than the sense of desperation that had flooded the village when they had first arrived.  Fearful eyes turned towards the group as they walked across the square.  He could feel the accusations in those stares; they blamed them for dragging the Blight with them from the Wilds, the reality of it cursing their village.

“I think now might be a good time for us to leave.” 

There was still a tremor to Ysabelle’s voice, one that Aedan had heard when she unexpectedly ordered the evacuation of the village. Her eyes flitted around the rapidly dismantled refugee camp, still scanning the area for dangers, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword in anticipation of any further assaults. 

“Are you sure we couldn’t do more for them?” 

He too felt the tension in the air, the burn of suspicious eyes upon them, and though he knew that Lothering was as good as lost, the thought of abandoning another town to ruin weighed heavily on him.  Not even a month had passed since the sacking of Highever.  The vivid memory of flames licking into the night sky still reared its ugly head in quiet moment when he could not distract himself.  The stark image of clouds stained orange as he fled across the moorland with Duncan still haunted him when he lay awake at night. 

His distress must have stolen its way across his features, because the tension in Ysabelle swiftly softened.  She reached out, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, offering him the same steady presence and support she had on the day of the Joining at Ostagar. 

“These people are desperate, Aedan,” she sighed, her voice low enough that none outside the party could hear, but he could read the pity in her eyes.  “I think it would be safer, for everyone, if we were to leave sooner rather than later.”

“If I may?  I’m inclined to agree with your friend.” 

Leliana spoke for the first time since making her introductions. She had slipped to the back of the group as they’d left the tavern, and he’d allowed the thoughts of his fumbling introduction to disappear with her.  He hastily retracted his hand from Ysabelle’s grasp, finding himself suddenly concerned that the gesture could be interpreted as weakness on his part, or that was how he excused his uncharacteristically rude behaviour to himself.

“I imagine there is much you have to do, and with the Blight snapping at our heels, it would be best to make haste, yes?”  The Orlesian woman smiled encouragingly at the group, evidently eager to begin her Maker-given quest.

“As you say, _Sister_.” 

Ysabelle fixed her with a cold look before moving to the head of the party.  Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she headed past the camp and out towards the western end of the village, leaving the bewildered group in her wake. Wordlessly, Morrigan swept after her, head held high, using her staff like walking stick she was ready to challenge any overly suspicious templars with a glare that could melt steel. 

The Bann whined piteously at the air of tension within their formerly happy troop, his baleful eyes staring up at Aedan.

“I know, boy, I know.  How about you go and make sure they don’t get into any trouble.” 

The mabari went bounding off through the village, earning a curse from Morrigan, and a chuckle from Alistair, as he barrelled past her, almost knocking the staff from her hand.  

 

* * *

By the time Aedan, Alistair and Leliana had caught up with the others, they found them stood in front of a rusted iron cage, which hung on the outskirts of the village in the shade of Lothering’s massive windmill.  The nearby grass had been ground down to mud by the passage of dozens of feet, and though the tracks never came within ten feet of the iron structure, the worn area did not carry on out of the village.  The cage must have held something fascinating to the locals. 

Within the cage Aedan could make out the figure of a huge man, if man is what you’d call him.  He was certainly male, but definitely not human; his skin had a deep, almost metallic tint to it, and his pure white hair was tightly braided into tiny uniform plaits.  He was hunched over, the curl of his back and tilt of his head a necessity as his confines were too small to comfortably hold him.  Even in his current state, he towered over the two women, but Aedan could not read the slightest hint of fear in their demeanour, in fact they were deep in conversation with him.

“Leliana, who is that?” Aedan muttered as they drew closer, his eyes narrowing, and while he tilted his head towards the woman at his side, he never took his eyes off the scene ahead of them.  “Why is he caged?”

“The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family.” Leliana’s voice was barely more than a whisper.  Apparently, she wasn’t keen to be overheard by the caged creature either. “Even the children.”

The bronze-skinned giant turned his head at the sound of their approach, drawing the attention of Ysabelle and Morrigan as he did so.  The Bann darted back to his master’s side, his stubby tail wagging merrily at their arrival, not showing an ounce of concern over their new-found ‘friend’.

“This is Sten.  He’s qunari.”  Ysabelle called over, nodding to the creature, who regarded the newcomers, his stony face completely without expression.    

“I’m Aedan.  Pleased to meet you.” Aedan ventured, still wary of the man, despite the cage.    

“You mock me.  Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands.” The qunari’s voice was a reverberating monotone, cool and emotionless.  He frowned at Aedan with a startling intensity to his dark eyes, scrutinising the young man and the assembled party, before turning away, his interest in them faded.  “Though it matters little, now.  I will die soon enough.” 

Subtly shepherding them out of earshot of the cage, Aedan turned to the group.  “Are you sure it was a good idea speaking with him?  From what Leliana told us, that qunari murdered a whole family.”

“That is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the darkspawn,” snapped Morrigan, her voice raised, not caring if the qunari could hear.  “If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.” 

“Mercy?” Alistair snorted derisively.  “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

Morrigan shot him a sour look before continuing, “I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.” 

“Oh yes, that’s more what I’d have expected.”

Aedan rolled his eyes, the last few hours without the apostate and the former templar recruit biting each other’s heads off had been bliss, but apparently business had resumed as usual.  The two were glowering at each other from opposite sides of the group, arms folded in a bitter mirror image, though woe betide anyone willing to point out the similarity.  He caught a sympathetic look from Ysabelle, who must have read his face well enough to see that this spat wasn’t the first he’d had to endure since leaving Ostagar. 

“Look, he won’t say why he did what he did, but he surrendered with no further bloodshed.” 

Ysabelle spoke carefully, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she mulled over her words.  Aedan could see his escalating concerns mirrored in Alistair’s expression, half dreading the suggestion they both felt on the horizon, but Ysabelle continued regardless. 

“He’s been in there for the best part of on three weeks.  The darkspawn are coming.  Do you not think he might prove useful?” 

Aedan and Alistair stared at her in semi-disbelief, apparently the idea of recruiting a convicted murderer to the cause wounded their honour more than it did hers, and though it might not be the most moral of options, Aedan couldn’t fault her mercenary logic.  There were only six of them to stand in the face of an entire Blight, and that was including the dog.  If this creature could be allied with their cause, then they would certainly benefit for it.  Even if he wouldn’t ally with them, it felt wrong leaving anyone to the hoard.    

As if mirroring his thoughts, Leliana spoke. “To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn… no one deserves that, not even a murderer.” 

With half their party already decided, Aedan glanced to Alistair.  The young man scrubbed a gauntleted hand through his hair, obviously uncomfortable with the choice laid out before them, but he shrugged his reluctant willingness to adhere to the group decision. 

“I suggest you leave me to my fate.”  The rumbling voice cut through Aedan’s thoughts.  Sten was staring at the group again, Morrigan’s outburst having drawn his attention to their discussions.    

“Aren’t you interested in seeking atonement?”  He had no clue if this was the right tactic to run with, but it was all he could think of off the top of his head, especially under the unwavering glare of the qunari.  “Would you help us defend the land against the Blight?”

“The Blight?  You are Grey Wardens, then?”  For the first time since Aedan had seen him, the qunari appeared genuinely interested in them.  “Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill, though I suppose not every legend is true.” 

“Yeah… I forgot to say, he’s sassy!” Ysabelle chuckled at the disgruntled look on Aedan’s face. 

“Do you think the Revered Mother would let him go?” He turned to Leliana. 

“Perhaps. If you told her the Grey Wardens need his assistance,” she mused, the lyrical quality to her voice caught him off guard again, leaving him struggling to maintain his composure under the scrutiny of his companions and the watchful gaze of the caged qunari. 

“Very well,” he squeaked, jumping on the suggestion a little faster than was dignified, but he was suddenly keen to be away from searching stares and to actually be doing something.  “We will go to the Chantry and speak with the Revered Mother.” 

He had turned quickly, beginning to make his way back towards the village before Ysabelle’s voice called him back.  She stood next to Morrigan, looking at him pointedly.  It took him another moment to realise that perhaps taking their apostate friend into the Chantry was not the best idea he’d had that day. 

“I could pick that lock…” He silenced Ysabelle’s suggestion with a frown.  “Or you could go back into town and w— we’ll gather some supplies from the woods. Shifty fella in the pub offered to pay some decent coin for some poison for his traps.”

She grinned at the mild horror on her fellow Wardens’ faces.  “What? It’s not like being a Grey Warden right now is going to earn us free passage across Ferelden.  We might as well earn some coin where we can.”

“Fine,” Aedan sighed, the last of his ideals of the Wardens being a purely noble order slipping through his fingertips.  “We’ll meet you back here once we’re done.”

 

* * *

With that the group had separated, Ysabelle and Morrigan heading out of the village and as far away from the local templars as possible, while Aedan and Alistair walked back into Lothering to speak to the Revered Mother, with Leliana’s assistance of course. 

As they wandered back towards the village square, away from the scrutiny of Ysabelle and Morrigan, Leliana chattered merrily about how peaceful and friendly Lothering had been before the Blight had threatened it.  She spoke of the colourful, bustling farmers markets that had been a weekly occurrence until recently, and how beautiful the village had been that spring when blossom had adorned the fruit trees.  Her stories were enough to bring smiles to both the Wardens’ weary faces.  She talked about how different the Chantries were in Ferelden compared to where she had grown up in Orlais, the simple down-to-earth structures, like that of Lothering’s own Chantry, compared to the grandeur of the Cathedral in Val Royeaux.  Her musical voice making everything she described seem far more beautiful than it could possibly have been in reality, and offering Aedan a welcome distraction from the ugliness that had come to pass over the past few weeks.

As they crossed the small bridge over the brook that divided Lothering, she asked them of Ostagar and what had befallen them, and though the subject was still raw for them both, Aedan couldn’t help but tell her the tale of the Tower of Ishal, and how their beacon had gone unanswered.  He could see genuine sadness in her soft blue eyes when he spoke of the fate of the Wardens, and though he knew it pained Alistair to relive it, saying it aloud eased some of the burden on his heart. 

“And your friend, is she alright?  She seems a little… erratic.” 

Leliana had addressed her question to Aedan, as she had done with much of their conversation as they traversed the village, but this time Alistair replied before the younger man had had so much as a chance to think of a response. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a pretty rough week to be a Warden.”  There was humour in his tone, but his eyes betrayed his growing wariness of her questioning. 

“No, I understand that.  I just... in the fight, her response was… unexpected.”

“We’re all a little on edge, Leliana.”  An unexpectedly stern edge had crept in to Alistair’s voice now, abruptly cutting off this avenue of conversation before it could really begin.  “But I’m sure she would be grateful for your concern about her wellbeing.”

Leliana smiled meekly, remembering full well the scrutiny with which the other woman had regarded her.  She hadn’t had someone read her like that in a long time.   

“Hmmm, yes.  I’m sure,” she muttered to herself, so quietly that only the Bann could hear.

 

* * *

To the north of the village Ysabelle and Morrigan were following the meandering path of a tree-lined stream, half-heartedly searching for fungus that might do for poison crafting.  They walked in silence, though not an uncomfortable one, their eyes trained on the ground, looking for anything of use. 

Ysabelle paused, leaning against a tree while she tightened the laces on her boots.  Morrigan scanned their surroundings, taking the opportunity to knock some of the mud from the boggy ground off her boots with her staff.  There didn’t appear to be of anything interest in the immediate area, except maybe the small cave ahead that might afford them more luck. 

Turning back to her companion, she could see the woman was so deep in thought that she was fumbling ineptly with her laces, tying and retying the last knot while not even looking what she was doing. Obviously, something was troubling her.

“How is your shoulder?”

“It’s fine, Morrigan, thank you.  Just a little stiff after the brawl.  I wasn’t expecting to end up in a fight again so soon…”

“Tis understandable,” shrugged Morrigan, giving the exposed part of the old wound a cursory glance.  “Though I doubt this will be the last surprise we face on our travels.”

“Speaking of, what do you make of the Chantry woman?” she smirked but Ysabelle’s expression didn’t mirror her mirth, instead her gaze hardened. “You don’t seem as won over by her charms as your fellows.”

“She’s not what she claims to be, Morrigan. There’s a lot hiding behind those Chantry robes and demure smiles. 

“Tell me.”  Morrigan watched her curiously.  She had tracked as a dog, hunted as a wolf; she knew how to read a history from the land, but she had never seen someone read a history in a person before. 

“She’s an archer.”

“How could you possibly…”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ysabelle began, raking her hand back through the section of hair that insisted on falling across her face. “My father was an archer, a good one. It was a talent I never inherited, although being stuck in Denerim since I was 14 hardly gave me ample opportunity to practice.”  She gave a little chuckle, but there was something wistful in her eyes as her mind was dragged back to thoughts of home.

“Anyway, he was the first person to show me how to fight with blades.  There was something in her movement that just made me think of him… I mean she was good with those daggers.  Very good. But she favoured her right over her left…” 

The younger woman caught the scepticism in Morrigan’s eye, but returned her scornful look, as though telling her off for jumping ahead.  “Not in the way one has a writing preference.  There was strength in her right arm, far more than her left, and the way she moved… I’d put money on it being from years as an experienced bowman.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow.  The notion could be put down to the cloak of anxiety that surrounded the woman, she had seen it rear its ugly head in the tavern when she’d fallen, and again as she watched the refugees, but then again Ysabelle’s words spoke from experience, and Morrigan herself had suspicions about their new companion.

“And that’s without even considering why a highly skilled archer is running around Lothering, armed to the teeth and dressed like a Chantry Sister,” Ysabelle continued.

“So, we’ll be keeping an eye on her then?” Morrigan smiled approvingly.

“Yes.  I think we shall.”

 

* * *

Multicoloured light filtered through the Chantry’s high stained-glass windows, refracting in dancing patterns across the floor of the building’s main aisle.  The high beamed ceilings were shrouded in shadow, where neither the tinted daylight nor the hundreds of candles could quite reach them.  This Chantry was very much like the ones scattered throughout the smaller towns in Ferelden, a mix of wood and stone, there was nothing ornate about them save the windows. 

It reminded Aedan very much of the one in Highever, the one his mother had insisted they attend weekly services at, despite having a chapel within the walls of Castle Cousland.  The old stone and high ceilings afforded the same cool haven away from the heat of summer that their local chantry had.  It even had the same musty scent, tinged with incense and candle smoke.  The sound of the Chant being recited, droned all the way up to the rafters, creating a familiarly soothing dirge that reminded Aedan of the lengthy Summerday services he had attended as a child.   

Ysabelle’s decision to take Morrigan in search of poisons had been a prudent one, for the heavy templar presence within the Chantry’s walls put even him on edge, and all eyes were drawn to them within the quiet building as each knight they passed greeted Leliana. 

As they had headed deeper into the Chantry’s walls a voice called out to them in surprise.  A burly man with short dark hair, dressed in veridium armour had stopped and stared in surprise on his way out of the Chantry. 

“Alistair?” he repeated, the shock turning to relief. “It is you.  We thought for sure you’d died at Ostagar!”

“Not yet, no thanks to Teyrn Loghain.” Alistair glanced down at his armour which still showed the tell-tale stains of battle.  His eyes, which had previously widened at the sight of a familiar face, narrowed as his brow knotted.  “Ser Donall, what are you doing here?”

“Arl Eamon is deathly ill.  No manner of healing can rouse him.”  He shook his head, giving a deep sigh.  On closer inspection Aedan could see how haggard the knight was, the bags under his eyes betraying the sleep he had forgone in his travels.  A hollow smile touched his chapped lips.  “Our only hope now is a miracle.  The Arlessa has sent every knight of Redcliffe in search of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. They say Andraste’s ashes can cure any illness, but I fear we are chasing a fable.”

Alistair shifted restlessly at his side, concern etching its way across his feature at the news of the Arl’s illness.  All at once Aedan remembered the conversation with Flemeth in the Wilds, how Alistair had grown up at Redcliffe, how he strongly believed the Arl to be a good man, and how he had known the Arl his whole life. It wasn’t worry for their mission written across his face, it was the fear of a young man on the brink of losing another father figure.

This was a blow indeed.  The only thing they had been able to decide on during the trek from Ostagar was the need for Arl Eamon’s help.  Aedan spoke after a moment, seeing that the words his friend was trying to form were not forthcoming. 

“That’s terrible news.”  He glanced to Alistair, who at least appeared somewhat relieved that the onus of conversation had been taken from him, though he still shifted uneasily.  “We had hoped to meet with Arl Eamon to ask for his aid against Teyrn Loghain, but under the circumstances…”

Ser Donall nodded slowly, the slump to his shoulders deepening with every passing minute.  “I had hoped to take advantage of the Chantry’s library while I awaited my companion, but I fear I will be returning to Redcliffe empty handed. 

 

“Is there some way we can aid you?”  He could feel Alistair’s attention back on the conversation, his amber eyes searching their faces for any glimmer of hope. 

“I’m sorry, Warden, but I have found nothing to make me believe this is anything more than a quest of desperation.  I intend to return to Redcliffe as soon as Ser Henric arrives.”

The name was familiar to Aedan but he couldn’t place why, not until a slow dread crept over him, settling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered the body of the Templar on the road.  How could he have forgotten so easily.  He had intended to inform the Chantry of the death and return his belongings.  Ser Donall must have read something in his expression, for concern and suspicion now weighed in his gaze. 

“I—your friend in dead, Ser.  Murdered by bandits on the highway.  I recovered these from his—from him.”  Aedan reached into his pack, pulling out the bloodied note and the locket which still sat on top of his belongings.  “I’m sorry.”

Ser Donall’s gaze became distant, empty eyes stared down at the contents of Aedan’s hand for a long moment before he tentatively reached out, taking the locket and clicking it open.  If it was possible, his shoulders slumped even further as he recognised the painting held within.  He glanced over the note before stowing it away in his armour.

“Thank you for giving me these.  I would never have known of his fate otherwise.” He shook the sadness from his mind, replacing it with grim determination.  He clapped a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.  “It is good to see you well, Alistair.  Now, I need to return to Redcliffe.  Thank you again, Wardens.”

He gave Alistair’s shoulder a final squeeze, before nodding to Aedan and Leliana in turn.  With a final glance over his shoulder to them, he headed back down the aisle out of the Chantry, the footsteps of his armoured boots echoing up to the rafters, drowning out the drone of the Chant.    

“We should see what’s happening in Redcliffe ourselves.  I believe that now, more than ever.”  Alistair looked almost as dejected as the knight had done, but he sounded resolute, for the first time since they had started to plan their journey.  “I could do with some air.  I’ll meet you by the windmill once you’ve spoken with the Revered Mother.” 

Aedan glanced down at the Bann, giving a wordless nod in the direction of Alistair retreating back.  The hound gave a quiet huff before trotting after Alistair, pushing his muzzle into the man’s hand as he settled to walk in step with him. Aedan caught the hint of a smile while Alistair fondled the dog’s ears.

 

* * *

Hour later Aedan and Leliana emerged blinking into the daylight, for even though the sun was getting low in the sky, in comparison to the dark of the Chantry, the light was blinding.  Their meeting with the Revered Mother had been lengthy, it had taken a tithe to the Chantry and Leliana’s not inconsiderable persuasive skills, but she had eventually agreed to relinquish the key to the qunari’s cage. Their running into the local Knight-Commander on their way out had also proved useful, as he had given them some healing potions to see them on their way, but by the time they had spoken with everyone who had approached them within the Chantry’s walls, Aedan was convinced that the hoard should have caught up with them and swallowed Lothering whole.  It must have been a good two hours since Alistair had left them to clear his head. 

Once their eyes eventually grew accustomed to the light, they spotted their companions waiting for them in the courtyard. Morrigan stood off to one side, out of the eyeline of the Templars on the door as she tried to shoo away the Bann. The mabari was circling her, trying to get close enough to sniff at the mud on her boots.  In fact, when he looked at Ysabelle, she was coated in mud as well.  Alistair, who was decidedly cleaner in comparison, stood beside her.  He plucked something from her hair and dangled it in front of her face.  She recoiled, smacking his hand away, and Aedan could just about make out her telling him off for teasing her.   

“What happened to you lot?” He couldn’t help but smile at the sour looks on Ysabelle and Morrigan’s faces. 

“Nothing.” Came the snapped reply from both women. Behind them, Alistair grinned widely. It was good to see that his distress from earlier had almost entirely disappeared as he lounged back against the wall, smiling around at his companions and picking another piece of what looked web out of Ysabelle’s hair. 

“You were successful, I take it?” Sneered Morrigan, glad that the mabari had stopped bothering her at the sight of Aedan. 

“Yes, it was.” He brandished the key, flashing a quick smile at the woman at his side. “With Leliana’s help, and thirty silver, we can go and release our new travelling companion.”

He had muttered the sum paid, but it had far from gone unnoticed by Ysabelle, who gawped at him in horror. 

“You paid her _thirty silver_??  What is a she, a tax collector??”

“It is traditional to give a tithe to the Chantry, yes?  Especially in times of great need in the community.”  Leliana frowned at her, though the reprimand did little to calm Ysabelle’s outburst. 

“Hmmm, yes, that’ll be going to the community.  Just so we’re all aware, this moment right here, is why we’re all going to end up starving.”  She rolled her eyes and stalked out of the courtyard.

 

Leliana and Aedan watched her go in stunned silence, neither had expected such a dramatic reaction from the Warden. Alistair on the other hand didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, he just stayed leant against the wall and shrugged, the smile never having left his lips. 

“I wouldn’t take it personally, it’s been a busy afternoon.  Oh, and while I think on, we need to watch out for spiders in the woods.”

Morrigan glared at him, as though he had broken some kind of sacred oath in daring to mention such things, her gaze holding such ferocity that it was a miracle he didn’t catch light.  Suddenly the mud, the web, and the sullen expressions on the two women all made sense.  Apparently, their supply trip hadn’t been as uneventful as anticipated.

“Well, we’ve got what we came for, so maybe it’s time to get moving?” Aedan suggested, deciding it would be best not to question exactly what had happened in their absence, and eager for the group’s mood not to drop back to the tension he’d had to endure all the way from Flemeth’s hut. 

“We didn’t just lose money, we got poultices too!” Leliana smiled brightly, taking a cue from Aedan about the rapidly plummeting atmosphere.  She moved, subtly placing herself between Alistair and Morrigan in an attempt to diffuse the glare, ushering them delicately toward the main square. 

“Well, isn’t it fun, having us all back together again.  Now, let’s go and get Sten.” 

Ysabelle sauntered back across to the group as they emerged from the courtyard, looking decidedly less stroppy than when she had disappeared just moments before.  A benevolent smile had settled on her lips as she stood with her hands behind her back, twisting slightly on the spot. 

“You’ve changed your tune.” Alistair eyed her with something between amusement and suspicion. She released one hand from behind her back, turning him by the shoulder, and started pushing him towards the bridge.  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Oh, no reason.” Her voice was suspiciously calm.  “We just need to leave.  Now.” 

“What did you do?”

Alistair twisted, trying to a look at the woman pushing him along.  She rolled her eyes at him, relinquishing her grip and moving to walk alongside him instead. 

“Nothing.”  She flashed him an angelic smile, but there was something wicked lurking in her eyes. “Want a crossbow?”

“Oh, Ysabelle, for the love of the Maker!”  He whined at her, eyes widening in horror as she threw the weapon into his unready arms.  He clutched at his pack, dragging it over the offending article.  “Did you--?”

She touched her finger to her lips, softly shh-ing him.  The wickedness in her eyes had spread to her smile, but there was something infectious about it, something that halted anger in its tracks.  This is what it must have felt like to be a Denerim guard, frustratingly powerless in the face of that look. 

With a wink so quick he wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it, Ysabelle was gone, trotting ahead of the party, grabbing the key along her way, with the same grin that had stopped him in his tracks. Aedan just gave her a puzzled grin in return, unsure what she found so amusing, but perfectly happy to release the key to her.  Alistair hurried his pace, paranoia making him certain that he could hear voices calling after them.  He shooed the others on ahead of him, glancing back to make sure they weren’t being followed. 

 

* * *

The shadow of the windmill stretched along the path and out towards the village, leaving the cage and its resident deep in shade. It didn’t look as though the hunched form of the qunari had moved an inch since they were last there, hours before. He turned his head slightly to look at Ysabelle as she approached, key in hand. 

“The Revered Mother has agreed to release you into our custody.”

The qunari nodded solemnly, “Set me free and I will follow you against the Blight.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Ysabelle smiled as the lock clicked open. 

She stepped aside as the qunari climbed down from his prison.  He unfolded as he did so, his truly towering stature now revealed in its entirety.  He must have been a good eight feet in height. He loomed over Ysabelle, rolling his neck and shoulders, unused to novelty of space after three weeks confined in the tiny cage. 

“Wow.  I have no idea how we are going to armour you…” she mused, having to lean back to get the full measure of him.  “But I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

Sten looked down at her, raising an eyebrow, but on his otherwise impassive features it was impossible to tell if he was amused or annoyed by the tiny woman staring up at him. 

“Shall we proceed?  I am eager to be elsewhere,” he rumbled. 

 

* * *

The ever-lowing sun cast a warm glow across the crop fields west of Lothering, the dancing breeze making them shimmer like carpets of gold.  Surrounding them were the gently rolling hills of the Bannorn, the land was green and undulating for miles around even as it began to rise ahead of them, giving just a hint at the mountainous paths of the Hinterlands that lay beyond.  The next leg of their journey carried them back towards the imperial highway, the bleak grey stone of ornate pillars and crumbling arches dominating the horizon in front of them.  It would be five long days of travel to take them to Redcliffe, and hopefully to the aid of its Arl. 

The party stretched out ahead of Alistair. At the front were Ysabelle and Aedan, laughing merrily about something that he was too far away to hear.  The Bann ran on ahead, enjoying all the sights and smells the countryside had to offer, occasionally diving off into the crops to chase something unseen by the group. 

A way behind them, Sten walked alone.  He held himself with silent dignity, his face betraying no emotion at being freed from his prison, but from this angle, Alistair could see that qunari was trailing his fingers along the tips of the ears of barley as they meandered through the fields.  Alistair smiled, perhaps their new companion wasn’t as cold as he’d have them believe. 

Behind Sten marched Morrigan, her staff strapped to her back for the first time since they had arrived in Lothering.  He couldn’t help but wonder whether it was the lack of Templars to aggravate that had made her put it away, or whether she was trying to prove that the qunari held no fear for her.  As though sensing his gaze, she glanced back at him, flashing a quick glare before letting her eyes return to the path ahead of her.   

Alistair walked at the rear of the group with Leliana. She hadn’t said much since leaving the village but with every step it was as though a weight was being lifted from her.  A smile played on her lips as she too watched Sten’s secret enjoyment of his liberation. 

“Are you worried what might happen to the people we left behind in Lothering?”  The question had been tugging at his mind for the last few fields, as the village grew more distant.  

“They’ve been told to evacuate.  You told them yourselves.”  Her tone didn’t share the same concern that weighed on his mind.  “I imagine some will find their way to Denerim, but many will die.  As the Maker wills.” 

Leliana looked up and saw the pained look in his eyes.  With a sympathetic sigh, she rested a hand on his arm.  “If the Blight isn’t stopped, everyone will die.  We’re serving the greater good by doing this.”

“I’m not so sure leaving people to die feels like the greater good.  I—I feel badly, leaving these people here, all panicked and helpless.”  He glanced back over his shoulder across the lush farmland surrounding the dwindling view of Lothering. 

“We’re doing what we must, Alistair.  You must steel yourself… there is worse yet to come.” Though he knew she spoke the truth, her words brought no comfort.  Alistair gently shrugged her hand from his arm.

“I’ve never been very good at that.  The steeling myself part.  I find it’s better sometimes to just be a little weak.  I’m alright with that, really.”

He gave her an apologetic shrug before turning away, quickening his pace to easily pass Sten and Morrigan, as he trotted to join his fellow wardens.  Aedan greeted him with a grin and a clap on the shoulder, while Ysabelle was distracted playing tug of war with the Bann over a stick he’d dragged out of the field. Their rapidly growing party were an odd bunch, but there was certainly something comforting about being surrounded by people again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally out of Lothering and hopefully with that i'll have shifted this crippling long fic writer's block! 
> 
> Here is the accompanying one shot of what Izzy and Morrigan got upto while the others went to the chantry. https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079088


	10. Darkspawn, Dwarves and Disagreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the group settle into the the rhythm of traveling together, an unexpected visit throws them into chaos.

The last light was leaving the sky, stealing with it the last of the summer.  Left behind was a deep rich carpet like blue velvet that began to glow with awakening starlight, casting a gentle silvery aura across the undulating hills of the Bannorn, rising up to meet distant woodlands of the Hinterlands.  Looming out of the gentle arable landscape stood the great crumbling granite pillars of the imperial highway, one of the last vestiges of Tevinter’s ancient stranglehold on Thedas; its raised alien form dominating the countryside for miles around, still impressive despite ages of neglect.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky were seven figures, making their way along the ancient stone road.  Lothering had drifted out sight hours before, but the road carried them further on their relentless march.  Redcliffe was their destination.  Though they would claim the decision was strategic, both Ysabelle and Aedan had decided that, for Alistair’s sake, they needed to see what fate had befallen the Arl. 

Footsore and weary, Ysabelle trudged alone near the head of the group. She had fallen a little way behind her fellow Wardens, her energy not quite matching theirs, the wounds of Ostagar beginning throb the further they walked.  Morrigan’s eyes were on her, ready to force the party to stop and let her rest at a moment’s notice, but she was determined not to be a burden.  She was a Warden now, not an extra problem to add to their endless list of worries.  They didn’t need to know how exhausted she was, or how sick she’d been.  

The tavern had been terrifying, not just the threat against them, but what it had brought out in her.  The moment she hit the floor, felt the wet in her hair, seen the looming shadow over her – freezing in the face of it all had shattered her confidence, knowing that she couldn’t rely on her mind in the face of danger was as frightening as anything she’d seen.  The loss of control shook her, and no matter how she distracted herself, it continued to gnaw at the back of her mind. 

The breeze was getting up, carrying with it the first scents of autumn and a chill that tickled the skin; the days would only get colder and fresher as they ascended into the Hinterlands.  A pertinent reminder of how under prepared she felt for whatever they were to face on this mad errand.  She heard hurried footsteps behind her, Morrigan was catching up to keep pace with her, giving her a stern sideways glance at her obvious fatigue and refusal to stop. 

After a further half hour night had truly fallen, and Ysabelle was visibly shivering, but still their party carried on.  They needed to find somewhere suitable to camp, but the surrounding country was far too exposed to be truly safe.  The road itself was not an option – too great a chance of running into more of Loghain’s men.

“’Tis ridiculous,” growled Morrigan, glaring at the silhouettes of the two men ahead of them.  “We have to stop before you collapse.”

“Morrigan it’s—”

A horribly familiar sensation crept over her, like ice down her spine, making her hairs stand on end.  _Please don’t let me be imagining this now_. She shut her eyes to be sure. Shadows danced in the distance on the back of her eyelids. 

It was real, and she was running, all exhaustion driven from her limbs. Alistair drew his sword and began to run at the same moment she did.  Aedan was close on their heels, more confused that his friends, but the eldritch cry that shattered the night ahead of them left him in no doubt of what they were running towards. 

Shouts carried on the air and monstrous shadows stood against the night sky. In the low light two dwarves cowered behind a damaged wagon, darkspawn spilling around the meagre cover in search of their prey.  The first of the creature lunged forward but was met with a hastily thrown dagger, which embedded itself in its shoulder. 

“Son of a—"

She had aimed for the hurlock’s head, but at that distance, and in such darkness, it was lucky she’d hit anything at all.  It might not have been enough to kill the creature, but it was enough to draw its attention away from the huddled figures.  Shrieks and whoops bellowed forth as three hurlocks surged towards them. 

An arrow whistled past Ysabelle’s ear, sending her ducking, just low enough to stop the second loosed arrow finding it’s mark in her skull.  No time to worry about the archers now - she was closing in on the Hurlock whose shoulder still acted as a sheath for her dagger.  She dragged a second from her belt, sending it flying underhand as hard as she could. Steel struck steel, and with a spark that could have lit tinder, the Hurlock managed to knock the blade from the air. 

The errant arrow struck the ground next to Morrigan’s foot, drawing her eye from the melee to focus on the grinning genlock that unleashed it.  The next arrow was nocked and pointed at her, the string nearly at full draw.  She smiled darkly as the first crackles of ice began to form on the arrow head, spreading like frost forming on a window pane, but sweeping faster than was naturally possible, thickening with every inch it travelled.  In seconds it had enveloped the corrupted creature in thick ice. A small laugh left her lips as she scanned the fight’s progress in front of her. 

Aedan advanced to meet the blade of a second Hurlock, his shield easily deflecting the thrust, but as he used his momentum to drive his own blade forward, the creature knocked him back with its shield.  They were at a stand-off, circling one another, its laughter ringing in his ears as he scanned its stance for a weak point.  Help came in the form of the Bann, who charged past his master, snatching the edge of the beast’s shield in his teeth and dragging it down. The Hurlock snarled down at the mabari, drawing its sword back ready to thrust.  Without hesitation Aedan swept his sword in a wide arc, leaning his shoulder in to carry through as much power as he could muster, sending the creature’s head tumbling from its shoulders. 

Alistair locked eyes with the third cackling Hurlock as it ran headlong at him, swinging its greatsword back as it made its charge.  He tightened his grip on his shield and squared his shoulders, waiting until the last second before dropping to his knee, shield up and angled – a wise decision given the brute’s sudden change of attack, swinging the enormous blade fast from its hip.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the great blade swing straight through Ysabelle’s path of attack towards her own adversary.  He winced as it neared her, but without breaking stride hit the ground in a roll, the blade carving through where she had been a second before. Alistair braced as the sword came crashing into his shield, sliding up and over his head; its momentum dragging the Hurlock forward with it and into the range of his own sword.  He thrust the blade up and into the ribcage of the creature - the life leaving its eyes almost instantly, as it fell crumpled beside him, almost dragging his sword from his hand. 

Ysabelle’s hands found the hilts of her swords as she rolled across hard stone, air whipping her hair, marking the greatsword’s passage.  Rising on one knee, barely a foot from her foe, she drew the blades, forcefully dragging them in a dual sweep ahead of her.  With a spray of black blood, the Hurlock folded to the ground. 

Leliana ran to catch up to the group, scanning the darkspawn for any unattended threat.  A second genlock archer was skirting the edge of the fight, an arrow nocked, searching the crowd for a target.  She let forth a wordless cry, snapping the creature’s attention to her.  Her daggers were ready, marking the trajectory of the arrow with ease, she side-stepped and with a sweep of her blade, sent the arrow spiralling into the ground.    Her first strike at the genlock barely made an impact.  It grinned at her, pulling its own swords from its back, parrying her second strike. 

Morrigan saw her ineffectual attack, and with a roll of her eyes, focussed her energy on the mocking genlock, visualising the runes dancing beneath her fingertips.  Swirling out, as if drawn by unseen hands, white patterns appeared beneath the feet of the creature.  Leliana stepped back, defensive, as the genlock let out an angry howl.  It took her a moment to realise the source of the hex, but once she did, she unleashed a flurry of brutal attacks, each finding its mark, cutting through armour with ease.  The last strike of the battle was struck by Sten, wielding a discarded greatsword he strode through the chaos and shattered Morrigan’s frozen genlock. 

Silence fell again, leaving only the sounds of laboured breathing as the fighters gathered their composure.  Ysabelle let her knees slump beneath her as the adrenalin ebbed and a wave of exhaustion came in its place. 

“Join the Wardens, they said.  It’ll be fun, they said.”

A ripple of tired laughter ran through the group.  She was sat right by the damaged cart now, her eyeline drifting beneath it. 

“Hullo.”

Big blue eyes stared out of the darkness at her from the face of a young dwarf. He smiled at her absently before looking to the figure at his side, an older bearded dwarf who cautiously scanned the legs of all those around – apparently checking none of them looked particularly darkspawn-like – then broke into a smile. 

“Mighty fine timing you got there, friend.”  He slid out from under the cart, reaching out a hand to help the boy to his feet.  “Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur, at your service.  This here’s my son, Sandal.”

The boy gave her another placid smile and a small wave.  Aedan, who seemed as startled to remember that there were bystanders as she felt, came to join them, the Bann trotting at his heel. He pulled Ysabelle to her feet, steadying her as she swayed gently. 

“It’s good to meet you, Ser.”  He gave a winning smile and a small nod.  His voice was smooth as silk, not a hint of the breathlessness that still dogged Ysabelle.  Despite the darkness and death all around them, Aedan was charm itself, and even she was impressed.  “I hope you were not injured.”

It certainly seemed to work on the dwarf, who preened and beamed at Aedan’s words.

“No, not at all.  Thanks to your timely intervention.”  He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder and smiled around the party.  “Might I ask, what brings you along the highway at this late hour?  Perhaps we are travelling the same way?”

“We’re Wardens.” 

The statement alone was enough to bring worry back to Bodahn’s face, although realisation quickly followed as he glanced around the darkspawn remains. 

“I think perhaps your journey might be too fraught with dangers for my boy and I.”

“It’s been a long day, Bodahn,” Ysabelle sighed, letting Aedan continue to support her when her shaking leg would not.  “We’re going to make camp, and you are very welcome to stay with us tonight, until it is safer to travel.”

“That is a very kind offer, miss.  We would be very grateful, wouldn’t we Sandal?”  The boy stared back at his father blankly.  Bodahn gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.  “Thank the nice lady.”

“Thank you.”

And so, it was decided that the dwarves would camp with them that night, tucked in the shelter of the great arches that carried the imperial highway through the surrounding countryside.  In exchange for their kindness Bodahn had given them tents and some old armour that he’d been unable to shift – now Sten and Leliana were catered for, even if they looked a little patchwork. 

Food was meagre but spirits were high in the small group as they sat and chattered around the small campfire, until one by one exhaustion overtook them and sleep welcomed them into its warm embrace. 

* * *

Alistair paced at the edge of the woodland.  The highway was quiet, nothing moved in either direction and there was no hint of the darkspawn nearby.  Down the hill the camp was still, the fire was barely more than embers, just enough to see the figures that slept around it.  The days had gotten easier - the larger their group grew, the more the conversation flowed, and the more distracted he was.  The distractions were the only things stopping his mind from flooding with thoughts of Ostagar - everything that was lost at Ostagar.  He knew his chatter might drive the others to distraction, but it kept his mind busy.  He let it flit from thought to thought, let it speak when it wanted to.  It was nights like this, when the world was silent and he was alone, that memories of faces he would never see again came to haunt him.    

In the black of night, for what could have been hours, he stood, lost in last words and things never said, face turned skyward, trying to force back the tears that welled in the corners of his eyes.

The mist of tears overwhelmed his eyes such that, when he heard the snap of the twig behind him, the world around him was blurred beyond recognition.  He whirled around, sword drawn, heart pounding heavily enough to hide the familiar sensation that had accompanied the noise. The faint glow of another Warden – it wasn’t something you _saw_ , more something you just _knew_.

Ysabelle stood a few paces away, the moonlight illuminating her wide eyes as she glanced between him and the sword pointed at her.  He swung his head away, scrunching his eyes in a vain attempt to force the tears back into their ducts, swallowing hard to shift the thickness cloying at his throat. 

“What are you doing here?” he sniffed, sheathing his sword.    

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She moved into his eyeline again, head tilted as she scanned his face through the darkness, pale skin glowing in the moonlight.  It looked like she would speak, but as the question began to form on her lips, a rogue tear broke free, spilling down his cheek and bringing with it a shaky breath.  Brows knitted and eyes soft, she approached slowly, as though he were an animal that might bolt.  She reached up and tentatively, and with a touch so soft he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, she brushed away the tear with her thumb.  The gesture brought with it a bittersweet wave of sadness and comfort that left an ache in his chest. 

“W—would you like to talk about Duncan?”

The question was a shock.  _Was it really that obvious?_ He sat down heavily, tucking his knees up under his chin, avoiding her eye - shame coming close to overwhelming him.  _What a fool I must look, crying in the dark about things I can’t change._  

“You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled into his folded arms.  “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

To his surprise, Ysabelle settled down in front of him, close enough that her knee brushed his ankle, but no so close that her presence was oppressive.  In her smile was the glimmer of the girl he’d known at Ostagar, the attentive and patient one who’d looked out for the other recruits – not the one who quaked like a lute string wound so tight it was ready to snap. 

“So, tell me about him.”

He hadn’t expected anyone to be interested.  They had so much else to concern themselves with, but she sat patiently waiting for him to speak, and once the words started to flow, he couldn’t stop. She laughed in all the right places, buoying his spirits with every chuckle, and gently squeezed his arm whenever the melancholy crept back into him.   

“I—I should have handled all of this better.  He warned me from the start—any of us could.  I just shouldn’t haven’t lost it like that.  I’m sorry.”

“Just because you knew something could happen, doesn’t make it any easier, Alistair.  And please stop apologising.  You don’t need to be sorry for feeling this way.”

She frowned at him when he opened his mouth to argue.  He probably should have stopped talking.  It did feel stupid, saying it out loud, but there was something cathartic in saying the things that had haunted him since waking in the Wilds - in actually having someone willing to listen. 

“It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him... in the battle.  I feel like I abandoned him.”

“Please don’t ever say that!  He saved your life by sending you to the tower.  Aedan’s too.”

“I know that,” he snapped.  “But I don’t need people to protect me.  To keep me out of harm’s way.  I know what I’m doing.”

“Nobody should wish to have been on that battlefield.”

There was a hollowness to her words that made him instantly regret snapping at her.  So much had happened in the short time since they were reunited that he’d never asked what had happened to her at Ostagar.  All he knew is where he’d left her – with the rest of the dead – and that Morrigan had found her in Lothering a week later, but the glazed look in her eyes told him that now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Have you had someone close to you die?  Not that I mean to pry, I’m just...?” 

It was an odd way to divert his mind from the memory of laying her body to rest beside the other failed recruit, especially since she didn’t know the thoughts that flickered behind his eyes.  The question seemed to take her aback for a moment, but she gave her head a slight shake and let a small smile slide back into place. 

“No, it’s fine.  My mam died when I was little, I don’t really remember her.”  She paused for another moment, fidgeting at her nails.  “My dad… well, that was a few years ago now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need.”  She gave him another gentle smile.  “It’s all in the past.” 

“Thank you.”  He scrubbed his gauntleted hand through his hair, feeling suddenly awkward.  “Really.  I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little.”

“You’re welcome.  Now, get yersel’ to bed.  I’ll finish your watch.”

* * *

They made good progress the next day.  Bodahn had bid them farewell, still unkeen to travel with them he set about collecting the last of their scattered goods and attempting to find his bolted cart horse.  By noon they had crossed into the Hinterlands, the land all around seeming to slope steadily upwards as the forests slipped down the hills to meet them, cloaking the highway half in shade. 

In the late afternoon they spied a good spot to make camp, and though there were hours left of daylight, they had made such good headway there wasn’t too much guilt in resting their weary feet a while longer than the day before. The track they’d found leading to a wooded clearing was surprisingly well hidden - given it was wide enough for a cart to traverse – the bowers of the surrounding trees forming an arch overhead, that not only shaded it from the sun but from the raised highway as it passed. 

They made camp in a clearing surrounded by oak trees, whose branches waved in the breeze, filtering the dappled sunlight so that it danced upon the grass.  Through the trees they could hear the burbling of a brook that wound its way back towards the Bannorn.  It was too good a spot to pass up. 

Once their canvas tents were pitched – what a luxury to not sleep under the stars for once – the Wardens and Sten took advantage of the remaining daylight hours to train.  They’d seen a flat area not far up stream where they would be out of the way, and with a parting shout from Morrigan – don’t break anything because I’ll not heal it – they wandered away through the trees, ready to work up an appetite for whatever they could scrounge for supper. 

* * *

“So, Aedan said raised you by this Arl Eamon?”  Ysabelle rolled her daggers over in her hands, adjusting them ready Alistair’s attack. 

“Did he say that?” Alistair faltered in his approach, surprised by the question - giving her a chance to duck out of the way of his shield bash - but he quickly regained his composure, glancing to Aedan, who shrugged his admission from where he lounged in the shade of an old sycamore.  “I meant that dogs raised me.  Giant slobbering dogs from the Anderfels.  A whole pack of them, in fact.”

“That would explain the smell.”  She grinned as she caught the downward swipe of his sword between her blades and firmly kicked back against his shield, sending him staggering back a few paces with a laugh. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, a side effect from her last match with Aedan – she had thrashed him, no matter how vehemently he protested that he let her win.    

“Well, it wasn’t until I was eight that I discovered you didn’t have to lick yourself clean.  Old habits die hard, you know.”  Grinning at her laughter, and taking full advantage of her distraction, he deftly dodged a swipe from her right blade and parried the following one from her left.

“That would explain the breath as well, then.” 

She chuckled, there was teasing in her eyes, challenging him to protest as they circled one another.  This time he moved quickly, and in her haste to dodge his blade, the edge of his shield overbalanced her, knocking her onto her back on the ground with a gasp as the breath escaped her lungs.  Aedan chuckled in the background, heckling her downfall. 

“Explains my table manners, too!  Though, come to think of it, they weren’t all that different from the other templars.” He smirked down at her, musing smugly as he awaited her surrender.  “Or did I dream all of that?  Funny the dreams you’ll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn’t it?  Are you having strange dreams?”

Quick as a whip, his legs disappear from under him - a well-placed swipe from Ysabelle sending him sprawling onto his back – leaving him scrunching his eyes closed instinctively as his body toppled to the ground.  He only opened them as a weight pressed down upon his chest. 

She pinned him, her knee pressing down onto his sternum, the other trapping his shield arm to ground.  He could barely wriggle, and even if he wanted to, her dagger hovered just above his throat.  Now it was her turn to smirk, eyes bright with amusement and cheeks flushed with exertion – close enough for him to make out the faint smattering of freckles the summer sun had left across her nose.  An unfamiliar knot twisted in his stomach.  His ears felt hot. 

“You know I’m not actually going to cut your throat, right?  You don’t need to freeze.”

“I… uh.” He was fumbling his words, cursing his loss of concentration.  _Must have hit my head on the floor_.  “I think I completely lost my chain of thought… oh, there it is.”

Her nose crinkled as she gave him a perplexed look, laugher on her lips.  She stowed the blade back in her belt and with that, the weight was lifted from his chest - releasing with it the knot that had pulled in his stomach – and she held out a hand to help him to his feet. 

“Loser stays on.  That’s you, by the way.” She winked at him, not giving him time to protest. “I’m tired, and I won, so I get to decide.”

He took the proffered hand but seeing how she struggled to so much as raise his shoulder, he couldn’t resist making no effort to lift himself at all, laughing as she leant back, dragging at him with all her weight to no avail. 

“Damn it.  How you do even _move_ in armour?” She cast her eyes around the clearing, her gaze settling on lounging young man who was laughing merrily at proceedings.  “Aedan, come help me!”

The young man sauntered over, sweeping his dark hair from out of his eyes, but instead of taking Alistair’s other hand, he grabbed Ysabelle around the waist and tugged her instead.  Alistair’s gauntlet yanked free from his sweaty hand, sending the startled Wardens toppling backwards into a heap, and the offending gauntlet sailing across the clearing. 

“So… who’s ready to save the world?”  Aedan was laughing so hard his armour clanked, sending Ysabelle into wheezing giggles. 

“How do you expect to defeat the Blight if you don’t take your training seriously?”

Sten loomed over them.  He had watched their practice to this point with the same patience – and vague irritation – he’d shown in the cage, but this time they must have gone too far. For someone who hadn’t been particularly interested in release from his prison, he was intent on getting on with their ‘duty’. 

“We’re just blowing off steam, Sten.”  Ysabelle raised an eyebrow at him from her spot on the floor, not at all cowed by his chastisement.  “If you want to show us how it’s done, then I’m sure Aedan would be happy to spar with you.” 

“What?!” spluttered Aedan, scrambling to his feet.

Ysabelle reached up expectantly, flashing one of her patented ‘you can’t stay mad at me’ smiles.  The qunari rolled his eyes but reached down anyway, practically lifting her to her feet rather than pulling her up to her feet. 

Alistair couldn’t help but laugh at the smug grin and waggled eyebrows she aimed at Aedan – the young man looking suddenly ashen as his training partner hefted his greatsword.  She settled herself at the base of the tree their unfortunate colleague had previously claimed, draining the last of her water-skin, and looking at him expectantly.  Apparently, he hadn’t managed to dodge the conversation after all. 

“Let’s see.  How do I explain this?” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to raise the strands that sweat had stuck to his head.  He couldn’t settle, nervous energy keeping his feet moving.  It wasn’t a topic he was comfortable with, and he’d run out of jokes to hide behind.  “I’m a bastard.”

“I could’ve told you that!” Aedan heckled over his shoulder, right before the pommel of Sten’s sword struck his in the stomach, leaving his gasping for air. 

“I mean the fatherless kind.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, folding his arms as he watched Sten bark instructions at the doubled over Warden.  Concentrating on something else made it easier to talk about.   _Deep breath._

“My mother was a servant at Redcliffe Castle.  When she died the Arl put a roof over my head.  He was good to me when he didn’t have to be.” _Now comes the hard part._   “He wasn’t my father, but the rumours still swirled, and the new Arlessa hated it.” 

_Hated me._ It still hurt to remember it.  To be despised like that when he was just a child - when he didn’t fully understand it, but at the same time understood too much.  _It was a long time ago, Alistair.  Just move past it.  The Arl is sick, and Redcliffe has far more important things to worry about than who is, or who isn’t, your father._

“Anyhow, I was packed off to the nearest monastery when I was ten.” _Breathe.  What’s done is done._   “Just as well.  The Arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point.”

“Alistair, that’s awful.”

He’d been too wrapped up in unwelcome memories to see Ysabelle get up and come to stand with him.  The sparring too had stopped, and Aedan now watched him, brows knotted with concern. 

“Maybe.  She felt threatened by my presence, I can see that n—"

“Don’t you dare.”  Ysabelle caught his shoulder, genuine anger burning in her eyes.  “She was an adult and you were a child.  There is _no_ excuse for how she treated you!”

He opened his mouth to protest – talking himself down was second nature by this point – but this time Aedan cut him off. 

“Be the bigger man if you want, mate, but we’re still going to hate her on your behalf.”

He didn’t know what to say.  He’d never talked about these things with the other Wardens, except Duncan of course. And he’d never been given the time of day by the other Templar recruits, so there was no way he’d have talked about something that still hurt him so much back then.  It was a strange and wonderful feeling to have actual friends, ones who cared about him.  But he didn’t have the first idea how to tell them, so instead he just scrubbed his hand through his hair and gave them a sheepish smile, before carrying on.   

“I was so furious when the Arl told me I had to go to the monastery that I hurled my mother’s amulet of Andraste _so hard_ at the wall that it shattered.  Stupid, stupid thing to do.  It was the only thing I had of hers.”

Aedan gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze, but he could see the sadness in his eyes, and suddenly he felt bad for bringing up families at all. He could only imagine what Aedan would give for such a memento of home.   _He would never be so stupid as to destroy the only thing he had left._

“Anyway… that’s really all there is to the story.”  He gave them an apologetic shrug, keen to no longer be the centre of attention. 

His relief came as Sten ordered Aedan to return to training, the young man giving him a pitiable look as he readjusted his shield and prepared for the qunari’s attack.  Watching Aedan being knocked around the clearing was enough entertainment to bring even him back from his melancholy. 

* * *

Ysabelle was the first of the Wardens back to camp, sweat drenched and desperately in need of more water after their sparring session.  As such, she was the first to notice the merchant caravan that had somehow found its way into the camp, an impressive feat given how well out of sight of the highway they were.  Numerous canvas-covered wagons lined the edge of the clearing, horses grazing dangerously close to trampling their tents, while their owners basked in the afternoon sun, chattering merrily amongst themselves. 

It only took a moment for her to recognise the tall figure of the caravan’s leader, his lean form pacing anxiously a little way away from the rest of the men.  His dirty strawberry-blond hair was longer, messier than usual, and the scruff on his chin was near enough turning into a beard - but she would know him anywhere. Sensing her eyes on him, Levi looked up. The tension in his shoulders melted away as he let out a shaky laugh.

“What are you doing here, Levi?  It’s not safe to travel the—”

Her words were cut off as her cousin closed the distance between them in a matter of strides, dragging her into a tight embrace that squeezed the air from her lungs.  If she thought logically, it shouldn’t surprise her that Levi was travelling the roads of Ferelden - he was a merchant after all, he did this all the time - but the reality of having loved ones so close to the dangers waiting to spill from the Wilds made her head spin.   

“We came as soon as we heard about Ostagar.  Are you alright?”

He pulled back a little way to look at her properly, brushing the hair that clung to her sweat-soaked forehead away with his thumb.  His eyes searched hers.  She could see from his face that he knew something was wrong.  She’d always been so good at hiding her feelings, masking them behind smiles or humour, but never from Levi.  He’d taken care of her for so long that he could see through every guise, and what hope did she have of hiding anything, when she barely knew what she felt from one moment to the next.   

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of Ostagar. He’d saved her in Denerim by organising her recruitment, and she couldn’t bear to think how he would feel if he realised what it had put her through. 

“There are only three of us—” Her voice cracked as she struggled to maintain the composure she fought with daily.  “They’re all dead, Levi.  Even Duncan.  I’m sorry.” 

She buried her head in her cousin’s shoulder, letting him hold her so tightly that he might have been the only thing holding her together as weakness threatened to defeat her.  She was raw, and fraught, and exhausted.  She didn’t know - or even care - if their exchange was being watched by her companions. They stood locked in the embrace for what felt like an eternity.  A void had appeared in her heart, one that she hadn’t realised was there until the moment Levi had appeared, one that only home could truly fill. 

A despondent sigh from her cousin stirred a thought in her mind - a thought unworthy of attributing to the man who’d practically raised her - but the paranoia that whispered in her mind wouldn’t let it drop.  She looked up at him, seeing that some of the tension had crept back into his features while he was dragged away in his own thoughts. When he did look at her, she could see something in his gaze, something evaluating her, but it wasn’t the gaze of a loved one worried for her health.  She knew that look, he was weighing the odds like a gambler, no, like the salesman he was. 

_Please, Levi, don’t be here for that._

He gave her a small smile, his chin set as though he had come to a decision. 

“You remember Duncan’s promise, don’t you?  I—do you think you could--?” 

Ysabelle pushed herself out of the embrace, not knowing whether she was angrier at herself for suspecting her cousin, or angrier at him for proving her right.  Eyes were on them.  She didn’t know when Aedan and Alistair had arrived back in camp, but they were there now, watching the proceedings from a distance.

_Please, if anybody out there is listening, I’m not ready for this.  Not yet._

The swoosh of blood thumping wildly in her ears made it near impossible to think straight, all she knew was, though Levi wasn’t ashamed, this was a secret she felt safer keeping.  But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a way to put off her cousin.  It had always been damn near impossible to get him to drop an idea once he had it in his head.  Stubbornness was yet another family trait she’d rather not own up to.   

“ _Andraste’s ass_ , Levi, I know this is important to you, but I think your timing could be better.”

She didn’t mean to be so loud, but the anxiety fluttering in her chest was making it difficult for her to control herself.  Noticing muttering breaking out amongst her companions, a slight tremor began to twitch at her fingers.

Levi also spotted them taking notice, and to her dismay, he beckoned them over.  Straightening his tunic, he flashed her his best merchant’s smile - the kind he wore when working on the hard sell. 

“Levi, please, I’m begging you.”

“We need this, Izzy.  If we don’t follow this through we’ll never know what really happened at the Peak.”

Now his eyes pleaded with hers.  For as long as she could remember Levi had been obsessed with seeking the truth. Despite what it had cost them, he was irrepressibly driven to learn about the ancestor whose name hung over their family like the headsman’s axe.  Two ages ago that would have been the price for his curiosity, and though times had moved on, not everyone’s attitudes had.  But all Levi had ever wanted was to restore the family honour, to justify to all who knew, that there was no shame to their name.  Ysabelle on the other hand had seen first-hand what hatred still lurked out there.

“I honestly don’t know why we use either of our family names.  Sometimes I think you forget this one got us _massacred_ and run out of Ferelden.”

Her rant was a bitter whisper, knowing now that there was little she could do to avoid the truth any longer.  Her dry tone masking the churning in her stomach, trying to bite back at memories that had coloured her view on the world – and their heritage - since the death of her father. 

“Of course, we could always go with Derocher.  After all this is a glorious time to be in possession of an Orlesian alias…  Or if we _really_ wanted to stir shit up I could just introduce myself as ‘I-hate-dogs-and-think-that-wearing-fur-is-tacky’?”

Levi smiled down at her, knowing that resignation to sarcasm meant she’d given in.  He chuckled quietly as she continued to chunter at his side, so wrapped up in the latter stages of her rant that she completely failed to notice her fellow wardens flanking her, regarding her with the upmost confusion.

“I’m not sure I’d recommend the name change,” advised Alistair, amusement playing on his lips, as he raised an eyebrow raised skyward.

“The Bann would not be impressed,” teased Aedan, gesturing to the mabari, who raised his snout to see if food was on offer. 

“Do you ever think you might be exaggerating, dear cousin?” drawled Levi patiently.

“Do you ever think you might get us killed, saying this in the wrong company?” Ysabelle muttered pointedly back to him, unable to look her friends in the eye. 

She moved to stand behind Levi, his form a reassuring shield against the anxiety that was building within the pit of her stomach.  She trusted these men, but she’d seen first-hand what could happen when people remembered the old names and took offense to them.  She had lost her father to such an incident, and though she still harboured Perth’s fierce pride for who they were, his killers had taught her shame, and it had been many years since it had been a name she was willing to use. 

Levi looked between Aedan and Alistair, smiling the polished smile of a natural salesman, “Where are my manners?  The name’s Levi, Levi Dryden.”

Their reactions would be etched into her brain for a long time to come, drawn in slow motion onto the back of her eyes.  She could see the vague flicker of recognition in Alistair’s eyes, like he’d heard the name before but couldn’t place it.  Next to him, Aedan’s jaw had dropped.  He stood gaping, his eyes drifting from Levi to Ysabelle.  She could see questions forming on his lips, stirring memories in her head.  Ones she wasn’t ready for.   

“This is Alistair, and this is Aedan Cousland.  We are what remains of the Wardens in Ferelden.”  Nerves added a tremor to her blurted introductions, as she gestured to the men in turn.  She finally willed herself to meet their gazes, taking a deep breath and readying herself for whatever might come. “And in case it’s not already been made clear… my name is Ysabelle Sophia Dryden.”

“Dryden is a black name.” 

Aedan’s words hit her like a punch to the stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs.  She’d heard such things before from the mouth of another, a brash young man with things to prove, looking for a fight.  She remembered the way his companions had sneered at them.  Her father had never stood a chance, but he’d tried, for her sake. Most of all she remembered the blade. And the blood.  And now all she saw was red. 

“Your family lost its land and titles.” 

His words cut swifter and deeper than her daggers.  The lost young man she’d come to know wasn’t there anymore. There were no bumbling words.  No kind eyes.  He stood straighter than before, shoulders back, no youthful slouch. Those blue eyes pierced and all she could feel was judgement, all she could see was an attack.  That _child_ was standing in front of her family and he was talking _down_ to them. 

“Do the nobility have nothing better to teach their children than who isn’t welcome at court anymore?” she sneered, cold laughter sharpening her words. “How scandalous it would be if they didn’t know who to snub over things that happened _hundreds_ of years ago?” 

Levi’s smile wavered momentarily, his eyes flitting between the Wardens and Ysabelle.  Realising that he was losing control of the situation, he forced his smile back into place – though it no longer reached his eyes - and interjected.

“But Teyrn Cousland’s son should be well aware that in politics things are seldom as they seem.  Say what you will of my family, we’re ardent Warden supporters.  Have been since the beginning.”

Ysabelle felt the weight on her cousin’s hand resting on her shoulder, neither of them really knowing if it was an attempt at comfort, or to hold her back, just in case.  It did nothing to relieve her tension, or take her icy glare off the young noble, who now stared back at her with the same unwillingness to back down.  Levi plunged on, ignoring the frigid atmosphere - his smile a little more manic that before.

“You see, our great-great-grandmother, Sophia Dryden, was the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

Something like realisation had dawned in Alistair’s eyes at the mention of her rank - undoubtedly something Duncan must have told him when he was recruited - but as Levi continued to speak his eyes widened further and his shoulders tensed, as he lost interest in the ice forming between Aedan and Ysabelle. He continued to stare at Levi, his eyes occasionally darting across Ysabelle. 

“A position she rose to having been ‘removed’ from contention for the throne. She was King Arland’s cousin back at the beginning of the Storm Age.  Our family can be traced all the way back to Calenhad, you know.”

“Yes, I remember now.  She tried to start a war.  And in answer to your question, they teach us these things so we know who to trust and who will _betray_ us.”  Aedan’s eyes bored into Ysabelle’s, they held an anger she’d never seen before - one that would have taken her aback if her own blood hadn’t boiled with every word of his attack.  His lips curled into a snarl.  “You’re lucky all they did was take your lands and titles.”

“All they did?!  We were hunted across Ferelden!  Slain on sight!  Anyone associated with our family, or suspected of associating with us, were executed!” 

All eyes were on them now.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see heads turning, heard the whispers starting, felt judgements forming.  She was stood in front of Levi now.  She had no idea when she’d moved, but she was stood directly between him and Aedan, facing him down, fists clenched distressingly near to her swords.  A cold sweat swept over her as she looked between the Wardens’ faces - now showing nothing but hatred and horror.   All it took was the mention of this cursed name and she was losing everything all over again. 

“That’s what happens to traitors to the king.  You might not understand this, but traitors get what’s coming to them.” 

_Traitor.  Betrayal_. The words were venomous, loaded with nothing less than hate.  Aedan matched her approach, glaring down at her as he stepped forward, his fist clenched so tightly they were white-knuckled and shaking.

“She was not a traitor!  Not all the blighted Theirins are heroes you know.  There were tyrants in that family.” 

She was yelling now, all control gone.  The small voice in the back of her head was begging her to stop before she went too far, but the more attacked she felt, the more she lashed out.  She could feel a sob clawing at the back of her throat, tears burning as they welled in the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them loose.

“I imagine it might be hard to see past your privilege, but being nobility does not make you _noble_.”

Even Alistair was looking at her coldly, his lips drawn into a tight line. He only met her gaze for a moment before breaking their eye contact with a shake of his head, and turning his back on the argument, he stalked away, lost to their sight in the dense treeline. 

Shame bit at the heels of her anger as the adrenalin ebbed away and exhaustion began to overtake her.  Alistair’s leaving was at least enough to halt the escalating hostilities.  They watched him leave without a word, silence filling the void between them, their words hanging heavy in their ears. 

Levi must have moved away as the argument grew more heated.  She’d been so blinded by her anger she hadn’t even noticed. He stood by the lead caravan looking solemn.  The crew bustled around him, hitching horses to wagons and packing away belongings. It was amazing how quickly they worked, or more likely, they had seen the situation going downhill and had decided to make a hasty exit.  She couldn’t blame them.  Right now, given the choice, she’d leave with them. 

Fighting the urge to run, she carefully picked her way over to Levi.  This wasn’t a problem that was going to go away, and she’d heard him talk so often about how the Peak would benefit the Wardens, she might as well just resign herself to helping her cousin.  It seemed to be her lot in life after all.  

“We’ll do it, Levi,” she sighed, utterly defeated at last, steeling herself to be left hated and alone.  “But not now. It’ll be months, do you hear me? I’ll send a raven.”

She rested her head against his shoulder again, a traitorous tear slipping her defences and trickling its way down her cheek.  He wrapped her in one last hug, kissing the top of her head, before breaking away and climbing aboard the lead wagon.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.”  _I know you are._  

She stood aside as the caravans rumbled out of the clearing, nodding in return at the awkward smiles coming from crew as the rode by.  She’d known many of them since she was a child.  Some had even been part of her father’s own crew, and had watched her grow up.  They knew what lay behind the argument they’d witnessed, but it didn’t make her feel any less ashamed.  _I don’t think I’m making you proud right now, dad._   

“What makes you think you can speak for the group?” Aedan had waited until the last caravan had drifted out of sight before addressing her.  His eyes were still cold, but the rage had subsided. He looked as exhausted as she did.  “What have you even agreed to?”

“I have as much right to make decisions as you do,” she shot back with the last of her energy.   “Duncan promised he’d look into Soldier’s Peak.  It was Sophia’s Warden stronghold, that’s why he agreed in the first place.” 

She could see questioning in his knotted brow - Levi hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to explain everything after all - but she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to explain further.  She needed sleep, if only she could manage a more restful night this time. With a sigh, she left him in the middle of the clearing, heading towards the fire that marked where Morrigan’s territory began.  At least she knew she wouldn’t have to face unnecessary questions there. 

* * *

The surprise visit had made for an awkward evening in camp.  Ysabelle had withdrawn to Morrigan’s camp, and Alistair still hadn’t returned from the woods, so Aedan sat in silence with their two most recent recruits, staring in to the fire, unable to touch his meal. 

Though Leliana tentatively tried to make conversation, not even her gentle words could distract him from the aching pit in the depths of his stomach. For the first time since waking in the Wilds, he really feared for success of their quest.  He was angry and ashamed of the spectacle they’d caused – he hadn’t been brought up to behave that way, but thinking of his family just made it worse.  Even Alistair had been affected by their outburst, having the descendant of a disgraced Warden in their midst must have come as a shock to him. 

His anger at Ysabelle had turned into a throbbing headache which dug in behind his eyes every time he remembered the way she’d spoken to him, the way her rage had flared so quickly it had burned them both.  By the flickering light of the other campfire, Aedan could have sworn that Morrigan had put a consolatory arm around Ysabelle’s shoulders, but it had been withdrawn the moment she had sensed his eyes on her.  Perhaps she had not escaped the argument as unscathed as her icy gaze had suggested. 

The moon was high in the sky when Alistair eventually emerged from the woods, looking a little worse for wear from his adventures.  He had waved away the offer of food and headed straight to his tent, throwing himself down on his bedroll without even removing his muddy boots. His frosty return signalled a welcome excuse for the silent party to retreat to their tents, hoping sleep would lift them from the heavy atmosphere that lay over the camp that night. 

Only Morrigan remained awake, watching over her sleeping friend.  _All this fuss over a name_.  This must be one of those ridiculous aspects of human society she would have to get used to. A cool night breeze blew across the camp, and seeing Ysabelle shiver in her sleep, Morrigan gave a quick flick of her wrist, the flames of the fire dancing higher, mimicking the motion of her fingertips.  This eclectic group was going to take some getting used to, she mused as she settled herself down opposite her peacefully resting companion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Well it's all kicked off this chapter and they're still at least a four day march to Redcliffe. Next chapter we will have a look at the group from Leliana's perspective, and we see if our wardens can build any bridges.


	11. The Musings Of A Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the party through the eyes of one of its newest members as they make their way towards Redcliffe, dealing with the fallout of Ysabelle's revelation and the ensuing argument.

Leliana sat, combing the night’s knots from her hair as she let her eyes drift across the camp.  The Maker has a sense of humour indeed, sending her to aid this ragtag group, who seem to be coming apart at the seams.  

She teased one last tangle from her locks before setting about her braid - intricately plaited and run through with threads of gold.  It was the one ornate little adornment that reminded her of home, an indulgence that had earned her scornful glances from the other initiates, but she knew the Maker wouldn’t begrudge her one tangible memory that helped keep the joy in her heart.  

The pink light of dawn was filtering through the clouds and dew clung to the grass as she emerged from her tent. She slept alone, since the incident the other women kept just outside the main camp, huddled around a fire of their own, with Morrigan’s glare creating an impenetrable barrier that only the foolhardy would dare to cross.  

It had already been four days since she first met her travelling companions in Lothering.  They were maybe another day or so’s travel from Redcliffe, if they kept up pace, they would leave the imperial highway some time around noon to head down towards lake Calenhad - and with it, the village of Redcliffe.  Over the last few days, the road had climbed into the foothills of the mighty Frostbacks - their bulk dominating the skyline to the west, looming over the green mountain pastures and forests of the Hinterlands. The air was cool, damp scents rising from the woodland floor, bringing with it hints of autumn, but when the wind whipped from the west, it brought with it the pure icy scents of snow - for the Frostbacks were forever snow-capped, even in the height of summer.  

The view from their camp that morning was beautiful - the pink light illuminating the snow-topped peaks - and Leliana couldn’t help but smile.  Back in the cloister, her beliefs that the Maker truly showed himself through beauty like this had earned her ridicule, and usually thinking about it had tinged the beauty with sadness, but things were different now. 

* * *

_ They had made camp that first night under the arches of the Highway, exhausted but merry all the same.  At supper the conversation had turned to her time in the cloister, having already heard about Alistair’s monastery days - Aedan laughed so hard he choked on his stew, she could see Ysabelle making mental notes on how to tease him later and even Morrigan managed a small smirk when she thought she was unobserved.  _

_ “Cloistered life was so peaceful,” she smiled, remembering the quiet - often only broken by the gentle murmur of the Chant. “I found peace there, and in that stillness, I could hear the Maker.” _

_ She would only ever admit to herself that she had missed the excitement of life outside the cloister during her time there, but now she was free, there was something about the peace that her busy mind and aching limbs yearned for.   _

_ “It was by no means perfect.  My fellows could be condescending, but that is the nature of some people I suppose.” _

_ Aedan lounged back against his pack, taking a sip from the wineskin that Bodahn had kindly provided, and cocked his head as he listened to her - more attentive that his fellows, carefully considering her words with the gentlest hint of concern in his knotted brows.     _

_ “Condescending?  How?” _

_ She faltered at the gentleness in his voice, even though the last time she had spoken of her beliefs - and the vision that had brought her to them - he had not ridiculed her, it was such a different attitude to what she had grown accustomed to within the Chantry.   _

_ “I believe… that the Maker reveals Himself in the beauty of the world around us.”   _

_ She gestured to scene around them - the night sky scattered with stars, the moonlight gently illuminating the treetops, the occasion sounds of the nighttime denizens of the forest - a sad smile touching her lips, as she remembered the disdain with which she had been treated for expressing her views aloud.   _

_ “But they want to believe that He is gone, so that when He turns His gaze on them, it means they are special – chosen.  They don’t see how He could possibly have love for all - the sick and the weary, the beggars and the fools.” _

_ Aedan pushed back the section of hair that had fallen across his eye when he leant forward to hear her better.  She could see him considering her words, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  _

_ “I was raised Andrastian, but honestly, I think I prefer your interpretation to what I was raised with.”   _

_ For a moment it looked as though he was going to reach for her hand, but thought better of it, instead wringing it in his other.  _

* * *

She smiled more broadly as she glanced around the camp, enjoying the moment’s peace before everyone rose.  There was only one other figure up and about in the dawn light - hunched by the fire, stirring the contents of an old iron pot was Sten, who paid her no heed as she stretched out the kinks in her spine from a night on the rough ground.  

It must have been a particularly peaceful night for none of the Wardens to have risen by now - their nights seemed to be more regularly disturbed than the others, and to have none of them prowling the perimeter of the camp, or preparing food was a strange sight indeed.  

The night of the fight had been particularly bad for them, and not just because of the emotional turmoil.  In the early hours of the morning she had heard noises, like limbs thrashing against fabric. When she peeked out from her tent she had seen Aedan tossing and turning in his bedroll by the fire.  Instinctively she had turned her gaze to the end of the camp, where she could make out the shape of Morrigan trying to rouse another thrashing figure. As one, the Wardens had sat bolt upright with a gasp.  She quickly withdrew into her tent at the sight of Alistair hurrying over to Aedan from his spot on watch, not wanting to intervene in what was obviously Warden business… but old habits die hard, and so she had listened to talk of nightmares and archdemons - all the while sat with her breath caught in her throat, not wanting her intrusion to be discovered.  

Secrets had once been her life - discovering them, making them, keeping them - but this time she felt a twinge of guilt at using her skills to delve deeper into the lives of her companions.  Come that morning she couldn’t help but let her eyes rest upon the movement of the lips of the conversing women ahead of her in their little convoy - it seemed Ysabelle had shared Aedan’s nightmare.

As if stirred by her memory, Leliana saw movement from the far end of camp.  She watched as Ysabelle pinned her hair back, the glint of copper stained pink by the light stood out brightly against her pale skin, although, unlike previous days, there was a little more life to her complexion - maybe the magic she had seen Morrigan weaving the night before could be attributed to her decent night’s sleep.   

Since leaving Lothering she’d noticed that the woman’s nights were more troubled that most, having been woken more than once by the sounds of disturbed sleep, not to mention each time she had taken over the watch, Ysabelle had been awake.  Only on that second night had she noted the nightmares had come as Aedan’s did - something else must haunt her nights. Leliana knew she shouldn’t pry - it was un-Andrastian after all - but she yearned to understand, excusing her curiosity to herself as the desire to help, all the while feeling the frustration that the other woman was still so guarded in her company.   

Leliana looked away as those green eyes locked onto hers, ignoring the returned scrutiny, and instead smiled a greeting to Sten - she only ever received a nod in return - and joined him at the fire, scooping something that looked like porridge into a bowl.  Ferelden food left much to be desired. She pulled a face but ate it anyway, more demurely than the men who had joined her at the fireside, wolfing down the contents and paying no heed to the taste - or lack thereof.

* * *

The group had settled into an uneasy routine over the days since their journey began.  Each morning they rose with the sun, ate quickly - whatever was left of their meagre supplies - collected their bedrolls, packed up their tents, then scuffed out any remnants of a fire and covered the ash to hide as much evidence of their passage as possible.  

The morning after the fight, their routine had continued as usual but with barely a word spoken - just a grunt of acknowledgement here, or a terse nod there.  Leliana had expected the mood to pass, but even now things had hardly improved. Though Aedan and Alistair were talking freely again - not that they had ever purposefully stopped - the former templar recruit seemed more guarded than before.  In fact, over the last few days Aedan had taken to walking with Leliana at the back of the group, letting her distract him with more talk of her time in the Chantry and where she grew up.

_ The morning after the fight he’d walked at her side for the most of the day, his spirits growing steadily higher as she chattered happily - never once mentioning the subject that had brought such tension to their party.  When he tentatively asked her what ‘someone like her’ was doing in Lothering’s Chantry, though he wasn’t as blatant as when they first met, she could see he was testing the waters of his charm - this time with a half smile and a cocked brow as he spoke, teasing with his words, so he could take them back as jest if rebuffed.    _

_ “And what do you mean by “someone like me?”” she gasped, widening her eyes in feigned insult - only to receive a chuckle in return and a twinkle from brilliant blue eyes glancing down at her as they continued their march.   _

_ “ _ You _ know, a beautiful charming woman like yourself.” He shook his head, the half-smile turning into a grin.   _

_ “And they have none in the cloisters?  So naive...” This time it was her turn to tease.  “There were many lovely initiates in Lothering – I suppose forbidden fruit might add to their appeal.  Lends a certain air of mystique, no?”  _

_ “Surely, they can’t have been more lovely than you.” _

_ “Flatterer.”  She rolled her eyes, giving him a sharp dig in the rib when he laughed at her.  _

_ “You said you weren’t always in the Chantry, what was it you did before that?” _

_ She tried to shrug off the tension the question brought to her, her mind racing to find the best way to answer what he must have no idea was such a loaded question.   _

_ “I-I was a travelling minstrel, in Orlais.  Tales and songs and travelling were my life.  It’s not the most exciting life, but I saw a lot while I travelled.”  The lies tripped smoothly off her tongue - the same ones she had told the Chantry on her arrival there - but there was something still expectant in Aedan’s eyes, as though he were expecting her to elaborate… but about what… he couldn’t suspect… surely.  “And my skill in battle… well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes?” _

_ The words had leapt from her mouth before she had a chance to halt them.  Of course he hadn’t been pushing about that - he hadn’t asked about it once since they started their journey together - he was probably just being polite and an attentive listener.  With a smile masking her concern, she searched his features for any sign of recognition. Other than a slight waiver to his smile - one that lasted so briefly she couldn’t be sure she saw it at all - she saw nothing to give her alarm.   _

_ Not on his features at least.  When she turned ahead her eyes met Ysabelle’s for a moment - she might just be checking we are keeping up - two moments - she could have heard a little and just been curious - three moment -  _ she knows _. _

_ But not a word was said.  The eye contact was broken, leaving Leliana confused as to what this might mean.       _

* * *

They had packed up camp as soon as they had finished their breakfast, and had been on the road before the pink hues had left the sky.  The sun was high in the sky now, Leliana mused as she gazed at the monstrous Frostbacks which dominated the view to the west. They stopped their ascent finally, the highway sinking more into the landscape amongst the woods and lower pastures than it had in the Bannorn, affording stunning views of the vast Hinterlands and the mountains that guarded Ferelden from Orlais.  To their east lay Lake Calenhad - still obscured from view by vast pine forests - and the further north they travelled, the more the land began to lower itself towards its cliffs and coves. Surely it would be time to leave the Highway soon and make their way on the road to Redcliffe. 

Today the party was headed by Ysabelle and Morrigan, the two women far enough ahead of the rest of the party that she couldn’t make out any of their conversation, but the better night’s rest seemed to have done Ysabelle some good.  Leliana could hear her laughter drifting on the chilly breeze - a sound she hadn’t heard since her cousin’s impromptu visit.  _ Maybe things are starting to work themselves out…  _

A way behind them strolled Sten - anything more than a leisurely pace with his long legs would have far outstripped the women ahead of him - subtly taking in the scenery that was so different to that of his home.  He would occasionally launch a large stick for the Bann, who had somehow convinced him to play - she smiled to herself, sure that Aedan had encouraged the mabari’s persistent begging of the qunari. Sten himself had seemed unaffected by the mood lingering over the camp, almost preferring that minds were more dedicated to their quest now than any frivolity.  

Right ahead of her were Aedan and Alistair.  She could hear Aedan’s low chuckle at something Alistair had said - probably another anecdote about how life at the monastery had not suited him at all - over the rhythmic clank of their armour.  It was good to see some of the tension eased amongst the group but she still worried that they were growing closer to their goal and still the Wardens were divided.  _ Maybe a little push in the right direction is warranted… _ she pondered, thinking how best to broach the subject.  

As if in answer to her thoughts, she saw Aedan glance back to her and, with a pat on Alistair’s shoulder, he fell behind his fellow Warden, waiting for Leliana to catch him up.  They watched as Alistair trotted ahead to catch up with Sten - greated with nothing but a curt nod.

“Are you alright back there?” called Aedan as she approached.  “You looked lost in your own mind, I thought I’d best make sure we kept you heading in the right direction.”  

“I’m fine, thank you,” she chuckled.

She had grown to enjoy their chats over the last few days, though she couldn’t help but worry if today’s chat would drift back to the combat skills she had so inelegantly babbled about the day before.  

“Leliana, can I ask what made you want to come to Ferelden?”  She let out a subtle sigh, the tension ebbing from her shoulders.   _ This she could answer _ .  

“My mother was from Denerim.”  She couldn’t help but smile at the surprise on his face.  “She served an Orlesian noblewoman during the occupation. After the defeat she returned to Orlais and took my mother with her.  I was born in Orlais, but mother was always telling me stories of Ferelden; I think she missed it.” 

“Was she not happy in Orlais?”  

Aedan had slowed their pace, paying more attention to her words than on the road ahead of him - she guided the distracted man out of the way of a particularly large stone that threatened to provide a painful interruption to their conversation.   It was nice to have someone interested in talking to her again, the Chantry - as peaceful as it had been - had been growing lonely as the months had trailed on. 

“She wasn’t unhappy... we had a good life, and she liked Orlais well enough, I think.  I loved it, though. Val Royeaux was so vibrant.” She felt a twinge of guilt as she wondered whether her mother would have come home to Ferelden if she had been able, or whether she felt she truly had the choice to stay in the first place.   “My mother died when I was very young and Lady Cecilie let me stay with her. I learnt a lot of my talents as a minstrel growing up with her - the dance and music at least.”

He gave her the same momentary quizzical look that he had done the day before, when she spoken about learning to fight.  She continued, trying to steer clear of the subject of her travels, all the while cursing herself for not being more guarded with her words.   

“It is unfair, that I have more memories of Cecilie than my mother.” 

“You were young, it’s understandable.”  

His words were kind and soft, but his eyes were sad, and with another pang of guilt, she remembered how recently Aedan had lost his own family.  She kicked herself for her lack of tact, as Aedan quickened his pace to close the gap that had expanded between them and the rest of the group. 

“Strangely, the only thing I really remember of Mother was her scent.  She kept dried flowers in her closet, amongst her clothes - they were so rare in Orlais that I’ve not seen them since.  Small, white Fereldan wildflowers with a sweet fragrance. Mother called them Andraste’s Grace.” A wistful smile touched her lips at the memory of that delicate scent.  

“I think I know the ones…”  Aedan looked thoughtful for a moment, before giving her a small smile - not his usual dazzling charm, but enough to let her know that he wasn’t upset with her for bringing up family.      

Ahead of them, Alistair had obviously had as much silence as he could manage without comment.

_ “Don’t you ever talk?  You know, make polite conversation just to put people at ease?” _ Alistair grinned at the qunari expectantly - only receiving a raised eyebrow and side-eye in return, no hint of amusement. 

_ “You mean that i should remark upon the weather before I cut off a man’s head?” _ Dead-panned Sten as he hefted the stick for the Bann.  

_ “...nevermind.” _

They couldn’t help but laugh at the dejected slump of his shoulders - even the Bann was paying more attention to Sten than he was to Alistair.  

“I should probably go and entertain him,” chuckled Aedan, making to hurry his pace, but Leliana caught his arm before he could go much further.  

_ This might be the only chance before they get to Redcliffe.   _

“Aedan, I…”

“What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath.  “I just wanted to talk to you about Ysabelle.”

His face froze, colder than before, suspicion in his eyes.  “What about her?”

“I-I think maybe you should speak to her…”  Her words faltered, met with silence but she plunged on anyway.  “There’s so much riding on you - all of you. I’m just scared that if we can’t face these things - the little things - how are we going to defeat the Blight if we aren’t united…”

“Just leave it, Leliana.”  

He slid his arm from her grasp and turned his back on her - walking swiftly to catch up with Alistair and Sten - leaving her to call after him.  

“Please, just think about it?”

_ Shit. _

* * *

Aedan’s irritability had gone unexplained to his companions.  Since noon the day before he had been untalkative and snippish, walking alone in the middle of the group - the Bann’s song of melancholy whines falling on deaf ears as they marched on.  

He’d tossed and turned that same night, an anger he knew deep down was irrational, burning at the thought that someone as reasonable as Leliana could have sympathy for such a family.  It had hurt all the more that the suggested reconciliation had come from her - suddenly he was wondering if all their talks over the last week had been to soften him up with this ulterior motive.  Again, he knew this wasn’t fair, but he had finally been getting to a point where he didn’t feel his face growing steely at the sight of Ysabelle, or at the sound of her voice. In fact, his curiosity about Soldier’s Peak had even been growing.  He’d read about the stronghold as a child - and of course about the reason for its downfall - but to be able to see it with his own eyes would have made his younger, less burdened self wild with envy. 

Eventually he had fallen into a fitful sleep - one haunted by orange flames licking the sky, of a darkened pantry with blood on the floor, of his mother’s voice whispering  _ run _ . 

That morning he had walked in silence again, but the restless night had set his mind on a different path, one that chastised him for using the name Dryden as a substitute for Howe.  If the argument had done one thing, it was to re-stoke his urge for vengeance against the traitorous bastard who had murdered his family. He found his eyes drifting east more often, towards Amaranthine - the ancestral home of the Howes.  One day their path would lead them that way, and when it did, Aedan would run the coward through, the same way he had done to his father. 

With the anger that had burned through him so vibrantly that night channeled towards a man who deserved the full strength of his ire, Aedan’s guts gave an insubordinate churn at the thought of its previous target.  

The Couslands had always been faithful to the crown, ever since the days Ferelden had first been united - he had ancestors who had fallen in defense of the king as recently as the war with Orlais.  They had learnt about Sophia Dryden as children, and the coup she had tried to muster - and how she had died in the process. On reflection, it seemed the main message of such a lesson was the importance of supporting the king, and what happened to villainous traitors.  He had never put much thought into the fallout of such events - assuming that the problem ended with the fight - but now he saw poverty and desperation, and with another twist of his guts, he thought of how he had rubbed Ysabelle’s face in something she’d had to live with her whole life, something that happened 200 years ago, an act she had no say in.  

_ Leliana might have been right afterall.   _

But still his pride fought with him, not wanting to admit that he’d overreacted.  With every statement of apology he ran through in his head, came a reminder of how Ysabelle had yelled at him, in front of the whole party, not to mention all those strangers.  Then inevitably his mind would cycle back to the guilt of what his parents would think of such a display. Would his mother have grown as judgemental as he had at just the mention of a name?  Would his father have been so easily affronted by a snarky response as he had been?  _ No, they wouldn’t.  And you owe it them, if not yourself, to make it right.   _

* * *

As the light began to fail, they travelled the ever winding road towards the village - a clever measure to cope with the steep slopes to Lake Calenhad - lined with woods, they had caught glimpses of the water, glittering with the hues of the lowering sun.  They made camp at most half a day’s travel from Redcliffe, at the base of a bluff with unrivaled views across the lake below them, spreading as far as the eye could see to the north, and on its waters the hulking shape of Redcliffe Castle dominating an island of its own, accessed by an impressive bridge.    

In the hurry to get sorted before they lost the light, the camp was a flurry of activity.  Alistair helped Leliana prep the rabbits she had shot as they had made their way through the woodland that afternoon, Sten was putting up tents and Morrigan had got bored of watching him attempt to light a fire, and had done it herself - with much eye-rolling.  Ysabelle was walking the perimeter of their camp, taking her time to judge which spots needed closest attention during the overnight watches.

Once she was done, Aedan saw her make her way up the bluff to the viewpoint, settling herself down with her back to the camp, presumably staring out across the darkening waters.  He found his eyes drifting back to Leliana as he decided whether this was the time to try and make amends, and was startled to find her eyes on him already. He managed to muster a small half-smile, the first one they had shared since he snapped at her the day before, and much to his relief she smiled broadly back at him, giving him a small nod as she realised what he was considering.  With a final deep breath to steady himself, Aedan set off up the hill. 

Far out of earshot of their friends below, Ysabelle turned her head at the sound of Aedan’s approach, chewing her lip as he drew closer.  He opened his mouth to speak, his lips parted but frozen as Ysabelle’s tentative words broke the silence before his own. 

“I’m sorry.”

Aedan gawped at her; everything he’d been thinking about saying, all the ways he might broach the subject of reconciliation were completely gone from his mind.  He’d expected her to be frosty - the way he had been to her for most of the last week - but nothing in her manner even slightly resembled the woman who had stood before him in that clearing, tearing into him with her words -  _ or was it he who had done the tearing, and she who had responded. _

“I was too busy worrying about how you knowing would change things for me, that I didn’t stop to think about what knowing might dredge up for you.  Before you arrived at Ostagar, Domnall told me about Highever… I mean… what you’d lost. He asked to me look out for you.” He could see a slight tremble to her lip at the mention of the man who had been generous with his time in training her, who she might have even been able to call friend - but who had been lost, like so many.  Her eyes met his, searching for any indication of how he would respond. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, I’m sorry.”

Aedan settled himself on the grass near her, facing out over the dwindling forest and towards the lake.  In the far distance, barely illuminated by the setting sun, and so small he could be imagining it, he thought he could make out the Circle Tower.  Tugging at blades of grass, he continued to focus on the speck in the distance - a point of distraction helping him find the words that needed to be said without him mind getting caught in the trap of his memories.  

“I’ve gone so long without really having time to think about what happened - not really  _ think _ about it, anyway.”  The smell of burning still made him feel sick - he couldn’t bring himself to sit too close to the campfire, no matter how chilly the night grew.  “Some people might  _ assume _ that Duncan saved me, the way he did you, or Alistair even, but it didn’t feel that way at the time.  He only agreed to get me out of Highever if I joined the Wardens - a price my father begged me to pay.”

That was the image that plagued him.  His father clutching his stomach to stem the bleeding, gritting his teeth in vain attempts to control the agony - there was blood on his teeth, smearing his lips and matting his beard - and now any time he thought of his father, this was the vision he saw.  The guilt was still crippling.

A hand gripped his, lifting it into her lap as she wrapped it in her other - Izzy had moved to his side.  She didn’t look at him, just down at his hand in hers, letting herself act as an anchor in a sea of regret.  If she’d really looked at him, he didn’t think he’d have been able to find the words - it was easier this way.  

“All I wanted was to hunt down the man who did it, but they insisted I get to safety - to Ostagar.  Fergus wa--” He gave a shaky breath. Fergus who had been in the Wilds when his world fell apart even more, Fergus who was probably dead, and he might never know for sure.  The hands holding his squeezed tighter. 

“We could still find him,” she murmured, gently rubbing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb as she spoke.  He couldn’t help wondering if this was how she used to sooth her cousins’ children when they were sick - not that he minded, the soft movements helped to keep the subject of Howe from making the blood thundering through his veins leave him with a vicious headache.  

“I think it’s too late for that…”

“It never hurts to hope.”  She slid her arm around his shoulders - it was a stretch to reach round his shoulder guards, being so much smaller than him - pulling the young man into a half-hug.  “If he’s anything like you, then he’s got more fight in him than any darkspawn can handle.”

“I hope you’re right.”  Aedan gave a small laugh, not as hollow as he’d expected, and rested his head on hers.  “I--I’m sorry too, Ysabelle.”

“It’s Izzy.  And you don’t need to apologise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this update. I'm still trying to get a handle on writing Leliana, and her dynamic with Aedan, so I hope it was alright. 
> 
> Next chapter we will find ourselves in Redcliffe and it's time for some more revelations. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry my updates have been a little intermittent, there are some serious family health issues going on back home, so that is taking up quite a bit of my time. I am writing when I get a chance, so thank you for sticking with me <3


	12. The Bastard Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Alistair to spills some secrets of his own.

_9:20 Dragon_

The templars had arrived that next morning, leading him by the hand from the great hall - too exhausted from lack of sleep to make a fuss.  He couldn’t bring himself to look back at where Eamon and Isolde stood on the castle steps to bid him farewell.  The hurt of rejection still burned, as did his eyes with the tears he petulantly fought to hold back.  Ser Donell had lifted him to perch on the back of a large bay courser, where he waited, clutching a mostly empty sack containing what amounted to his worldly possessions, as the Templar who had led him away, swung into the saddle ahead of him.

Alistair clung to the Templar’s armour as the small procession of horses made their way at a leisurely pace across the bridge to the mainland, the clacking of their hooves on the cobbled road echoing off the castle’s stone walls.  When he finally brought himself to look back, the step to the castle were empty. No one from his old life remaining to see him off.

His hand strayed to his throat where, for as long as he could remember, the chain that held his mother’s amulet had hung - its comforting weight fitted so perfectly into the hollow of his palm, its back rubbed smooth of its engraving from years of fidgeting - but now his neck was bare.  He clutched at the collar of his shirt instead, trying desperately to fill the gaping void in his palm where the amulet should be.  

As they climbed the winding road away from Redcliffe, Alistair continued to crane his neck to watch the castle that had once been his home as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance.  Even as trees obscured his view the higher they climbed, his eyes never left the spot where the castle had been - silent tears running down his cheeks.

* * *

_Kingsway 9:30 Dragon_

Through the trees, glimpses of the sun glittering on the rippling waters of Lake Calenhad, caught his eye, far below the winding road.  Though it was still early, the day was already warm, despite the chill of the breeze flowing east from the Frostbacks - their looming presence all but forgotten by him as Redcliffe Castle came into focus, its bulk had once been the reassuring presence of home, but now it squatted like a monster on the landscape, lying in wait for his return.  

They were still maybe an hour or two out from the village, but at this elevation it was easy enough to make out familiar shapes within the walls of the castle; there was the wing the Arl’s family called home (a place he’d never been allowed to venture, unless summoned to the  study), the thick outer wall behind which the kitchens were housed (where the cook had taken pity on him on particularly bitter nights, allowing him to sleep by the hearth), and there were the stables and the kennels which had were home to the family’s personal animals, and where his young hands had toiled, caring for the horses and hounds alike. 

 _I wonder if it’s changed at all?  Who does it now?  Do they even have mabari anymore?  Isolde hated “the slobbering beasts”, after all._  

At the centre of it all was the courtyard – the sight of which filled his stomach with a hollow sickness, and yet, just as when he had left the first time, he couldn’t take his eyes off it.  

Alistair walked on ahead of the group, under the guise of leading the way, but in truth his mind was far from the task, and the only reason they weren’t lost was that there was nowhere to go but follow the winding road as it descended towards the cliffs and steep banks that surrounded Lake Calenhad.  Descending behind him, he just can make out the murmur of conversation from his companions – Ysabelle’s laughter as she slipped on the loose stones, Leliana wondering aloud how laden carts made it up and down – but around him was nothing but the crunch of stones upon the dirt road.  He absentmindedly scuffed his toes every couple of steps and watched as loose pebbles skittered and rolled away down into the woods that lined the road. 

He had returned only once to Redcliffe in the last ten years, and that was only a month ago.  The long march from Denerim had brought him back to the village with Adanna and Lindel, tasked by Duncan with delivering news of the Blight, and collecting a recruit, Ser Jory.  He’d stayed – _hidden more like_ – in the village with the man, whose benevolent smile showed no hint that he had any idea of what was yet to come, while his fellows had visited the Arl. 

His memory obliged him with brief flashes of his fellow Wardens who – despite their gentle teasing – had welcomed him into the fold with open arms, and then of Jory’s bloodied body being laid in what they had hoped would only be a temporary resting place – his dead eyes still somehow filled with shock and fear.

_Great.  Now I get to associate this place with guilt as well as misery._

There was another peal of laughter from Ysabelle – _or is it Izzy now?  Seems to be what Aedan’s calling her after whatever discussion took them away from camp last night_ – as Aedan joked about her clumsiness. 

“How am I supposed to look where I’m going when there’s all this!”  She twirled round, arms wide – almost falling over again in her enthusiasm. “It’s beautiful!”

 _She’s not wrong_. 

The woods were thinning, and in front of them lay the crystalline blue waters of Lake Calenhad, stretching out almost as far as the eye could see, the warm light of the sun dancing on its surface.  Across waters that mirrored the perfect blue of the sky, sat the bulk of the peaks that sheltered the Bannorn’s rolling hills and lush dales from the bitter winds rolling in from the Frostbacks.

And yet Alistair couldn’t enjoy the view.  The nervous twisting in his gut was getting worse with every step.  The thought of the subject of his father would be raised when they reached the castle filled him with a perpetual churning nausea.  He hadn’t thought before, he’d been so fixed on getting here and making sure the Arl – the man he’d called uncle as he grew up – was well, that he hadn’t stopped to consider what returning to Redcliffe might mean following Cailan’s death. 

Then Ysabelle’s cousin had shown up, and just like that, all the realities of what can be associated with a name, and what might be expected of those attached to it was brought kicking and screaming into the forefront of his mind. 

Being descendants of the woman who had single-handedly caused the expulsion of the Warden order from Ferelden was shock enough – _but Duncan knew, he must have done.  So, who am I to go against his judgements_ – but their being another branch of Calenhad’s many descendants had damn-near winded him.  Like most of Ferelden, he had assumed that the Theirins were the only line left, but the revelation had left him speechless, barely taking in the argument that swirled around him. 

Ysabelle’s barbed retort about the Theirin line had brought on the sickening cold feeling within the pit of his stomach that had yet to leave - her flippant words feeling so personal that it had hurt his jaw to keep it clamped shut.  And he’d walked away.  It was all he could manage while guaranteeing self-control, or at least his best chance at stopping them from seeing his rising horror.   Over the week his shock had given way to stress, and a rising sense of panic that grew with every footfall that brought them closer to the one place that truly knew his past. 

**

They emerged from the woods fully, the trees giving way to rough grassland set on the steep slopes that led down to the lake side, or to the clifftops that promised a faster, less gentle journey to the water.  Another half hour and they’d reach the high market, where travelling traders would set up their wares - the roads into the village being too steep from that point on to take a cart – and from there, or maybe just beyond, they would be able to see down into the village proper. 

 _Maybe if I just tell Aedan… to test the waters_.

 _But what in the void is he going to think?_   Memories of the swift judgements that flowed from Aedan at the mention of the Drydens had him in a cold sweat, despite the heat of the morning.  _But it’s different, right?  The Couslands were always close to the crown.  He shouldn’t be angry or insulted, surely...?_

He couldn’t help but think of Ostagar, and the times that could be counted as him being kept out of harm’s way. How they had been kept off the field, sent on a supposedly simple mission to the Tower instead.  Or his leading their little band on their trip into the Wilds rather than joining proper scouting parties like so many of his fellows.  Would the young Cousland see it as weakness and feel the need to watch over him, like his family had done for hundreds of years?  Or worse, would he expect Alistair to lead, to be the responsible party that they would look to? 

_Will he still think of me as his friend?  Or at least as a Warden?_

His feet came to a standstill just before the path wound back on itself, dropping into the high market. The view was enough to make his throat clamp shut.  There, beyond the windmill, was Redcliffe castle – the only thing dividing them was the bridge across to its island.  He was close enough to make out individual stones on its walls, the leaded windows and the heraldry dancing upon the shuddering flags that flew high above the castle walls.  He was home, in theory, but everything looked cold and hollow – not welcoming at all. 

“Are you alright?”

Aedan’s hand landed on his shoulder, making him physically jump, much to the other man’s amusement.  With a half-hearted laugh, Alistair began to traced an agitated path back and forth across the dirt road. 

“I—before we go any further, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?  You’re sweaty and you've gone sort of pale... are you sick?” 

Aedan’s face was suddenly serious, concern knotting his brow.  Alistair found himself desperately glancing around to find a bit of exposed skin to see if his panic was really was that obvious – a task his armour made near-impossible, leaving only his fingertips visible, though reassuringly they were still their usual warm light brown. 

_Don’t be ridiculous Alistair, it’d probably take the archdemon itself tapping you on the shoulder to drain the colour from your whole body._

“I’m fine… I’m not sick, I’m just… it’s important.”

_What’s the best way to say this?  Maker, I should have planned this rather than pretending it wasn’t happening!_

“Is it Warden stuff?  Should we wait for Izzy?”

_No no no no no no!  The last thing I can deal with right now is another healthy dose of judgement!_

“No!  I mean… it’s not that kind of… she doesn’t need… I don’t wan—"

The crunch of stones on the road stopped him midway through his babbling, both his and Aedan’s eyes drawn to the source of the sound – not ten feet away stood Izzy, arms folded tightly across her chest, all the laughter from earlier that morning gone from her face and instead replaced with a raised brow above a steely gaze.  Her chin was held high, but there was something behind her cold look, whether it was hurt or anger he couldn’t tell. 

“I could just keep walking if you’d prefer,” she muttered, her lips a tight line as she kept her eyes fixed on Alistair’s.

 _Andraste’s flaming…  crap. If I could get swallowed into a darkspawn hole right now, that’d be just great._  

He held up his hands in what he hoped was an appeasing gesture - but only half hoping it would actually stop her from walking away. 

“Look, I need to tell you something… something I probably should have told you earlier...”

“Let me guess.”  Her increasingly evident displeasure had quashed the usual lyrical hints woven into an accent which betrayed her northern Ferelden roots, instead addressing him in a dry monotone – she might not have physically walked away, but her humour apparently had.  “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, that’s right.  I stopped you to tell you I’m an idiot.  Whew! Thank the Maker you know already!  Now I can stop worrying I’ll be found out,” he snapped back, his tone dripping sarcasm. 

“Okay, maybe we should start over.”  Aedan caught Izzy quickly by the shoulders as she made to walk away, steering her back into the conversation – leaving a hand on her shoulder on the off chance of further animosity.  “What’s troubling you, Alistair?”

_Take a deep breath and spit it out, man.  Don’t just leave them standing there, or you really did just stop them to show them you’re an idiot._

“You know how Arl Eamon raised me, right?  That my mother was a serving girl here, at the castle, and he took me in?”  Alistair looked over his shoulder at the castle that filled a large part of the landscape behind him.  “I suppose the reason he did it was… well, I suppose it was because my father was King Maric.  Which I suppose made Cailan my…half-brother… I suppose.”

The hurriedly blurted words hung in the air, surrounded by silence, as he wished desperately that he could take them back.  In front of him his fellow Wardens stared at him in absurd confusion – he’d have laughed at the sky-high eyebrows and the mouths that formed silent o’s if he wasn’t struggling to keep his breakfast down. 

“Say something…” he murmured.

_At least they aren’t shouting…_

Aedan’s hands had slipped from Izzy’s shoulders to his sides as he continued to gawp, but her eyes had narrowed – not in anger, but in shrewd appraisal – looking him over as she remade impressions that had proven to be false.  He found himself shifting uncomfortably under her silent scrutiny, feeling naked and exposed. 

“So…you’re not just a bastard, but a right royal one?”  There was a bite to her words that wasn’t quite humour – his rudeness from earlier not yet forgiven. 

“Ha.  Very good.  I guess it does at that.”

“You—you’re a Theirin?” Aedan was still gawping at him – thankfully with none of the anger or disgust he’d shown towards Ysabelle, just shock. 

“I would… well, I should have told you, but…it’s been a secret – no, _I’ve_ been a secret for so long that it really doesn’t _mean_ anything to me.  It’s not something I want, or something I’m proud of.  I was at best an inconvenience, and at worst a threat, so I’ve just been a shameful secret for twenty years.  I—I’ve never talked about it to anyone.” 

He fidgeted while he spoke, not wanting to meet their eyes and instead cracking the knuckles along his left hand – something he never used to be able to do, not until an injury during his templar training.   

“Everyone who knew _resented_ me for it, or they coddled me… even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it.  I didn’t want you to know, to feel like that, for as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

“Because obviously _we_ couldn’t understand being resented over a name, could _we_?”

There was the slightest of quivers to her voice, one she’d tried to hide with a stony expression, but it was enough to temper Alistair’s annoyance with an edge of guilt.  He had, after all, not spoken to her in anything particularly more than grunts and nods since the incident. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, hoping that the sting might bring some clarity to his thoughts.  

_Stupid.  Stupid. This is why you should have thought this through!_

“I…”

Aedan had managed to collect himself enough to place a reassuring hand on Izzy’s back.

“I think we understand,” he soothed, offering a small nod and a smile.  

It wasn't much but it was enough to make Alistair breathe a little more easily, returning his look with a nervous smile of his own.  Even Ysabelle didn’t appear actively angry at him, just perhaps as eager for the conversation to be over as he was. 

“Look, I have no illusions over my… _status_.  I’m nothing more than a commoner, and now a Grey Warden – I’m definitely not in line for the throne.”

“You’re sure?  Even with—”

“Completely sure.  And that’s fine by me,” he interrupted, unwilling to so much as let Aedan’s concern worm its way into thoughts - knowing full well it would haunt him late at night as he tried to sleep.  “No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not… royal, but he was Cailan’s uncle, and he’s very popular with the people, _and_ within the landsmeet.”

He found his gaze drawn back to the looming bulk of the castle – its windows staring back at him like dozens of cold lifeless eyes. 

“Though, if he’s really as sick as they say…”  His voice trailed off, his gaze unfocussed.  _It’s not worth thinking about until we know more_.  “At any rate, that’s  what I needed to tell you.”

“Are you sure you’re not hiding anything else?” Aedan questioned, giving him a friendly elbow in the ribs.

“Beside my unholy love of fine cheese and a minor obsession with my hair, nope.  That’s it.  Just the prince thing,” he said with a lopsided smile – hoping to look as much like his usual self, and as minimally princely as possible.  “So, there you have it.  Now can we move on, and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some…nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“I—,” his voice faltered, remembering his confession in the dark – the one that had brought a pained expression to those deep green eyes.  “I didn’t mean it like… just ignore me.”

Now disappointment darkened them, as with a shake of her head, she dipped into a low exaggerated bow – her eyes flicking up to meet his at the last moment.  

“As you command, my prince.”

With that, she turned and walked away, following the path down towards the high market.  Moments later, Morrigan stalked past them, hurrying her pace to catch up with Ysabelle – shooting them an icy glare as she went by. 

“Oh, lovely.  I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Oh, now don’t be so negative,” Aedan smirked.  “You never know, she might find your being a prince… thrilling.”

The obnoxious way he rolled the ‘r’ was in itself enough to draw an irritable sneer from Alistair, let alone the sheer ridiculousness of the statement. 

_What absolute bollocks... not that I’d ever want someone to like me for those reasons._

“Really?  That was your take away from all of this?  I think Morrigan might have been right.  That cracked skull must have been worse than we first thought.”

Aedan’s laugh was loud enough to draw curious looks from the retreating figures of the women ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this briefer than usual chapter filled with lots of sad Alistair (my poor boy! I am sorry!)
> 
> Everything is still mad at home at the moment with lots of family health problems, and all my creativity is sapped, so this is just a small part of what was going to be a longer chapter but since it's been best part of two months and it was feeling like post something or it'll never happen. 
> 
> I'll not be posting chapters as often as I have done in the past, at least for the time being, but I will endeavour to keep the story going, and I appreciate all your kind words x
> 
> but anyway, next time we'll be landing in Redcliffe proper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my first foray into writing!  
> This is very much a work in progress and there may be some edits (hopefully to add some art at some point), but I will try to update every couple of weeks. I will update tags as we go along and as more characters are introduced.


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